


Warmth

by indigo (indigo_angels)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Addiction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Eventually), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Crowley Doesn't Love Himself, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Depression, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Heartbreak, Hurt Crowley, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Substance Abuse, Tolerant Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 66,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22330660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_angels/pseuds/indigo
Summary: Friends with benefits really had to be the very best solution there was for any self-respecting immortal being on Earth. Handy. Convenient. The perfect way to de-stress with none of the hassle of trying to find a human willing to overlook the more demonic parts of appearance. It was reliable. Comforting even. Dependable, emotionless relief.Perfect, Crowley thought.Right up until the point when, well, it wasn’t.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 437
Kudos: 653
Collections: Good Omens (Complete works)





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully book and show compliant. Tags will be added with updates. Aiming for at least twice weekly updates, hopefully more!

Friends with benefits really had to be the very best solution there was for any self-respecting immortal being on Earth. Handy. Convenient. The perfect way to de-stress with none of the hassle of trying to find a human willing to overlook the more _demonic_ parts of appearance. It was reliable. Comforting even. Dependable, emotionless relief.

Perfect, Crowley thought.

Right up until the point when, well, it _wasn’t_.


	2. Mesopotamia, 3004 BC

Mesopotamia, 3004 BC 

(5,022 years until the End of the World)

The rain was pounding down on the flat roof, cascading over the open doorway in the manner of a yet-to-be-invented water-feature as Aziraphale and Crawley sat at a table in silence and helped themselves to cups of the local, warm, beer. Crawley knew though, no matter how much of the bitter drink he could force down, it wouldn’t ever erase the bitterness in his mouth caused by _this_.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, flatly, as the oblivious Earth-dwellers dashed into the shelter, ordering their own beers and complaining about the weather, “When the time comes?”

Aziraphale shrugged, his eyes on his cup, none of the usual effervescence that Crawley found both irritating and beguiling. “Go back up for a while, I suppose. Just until it all – you know – _dries up_.”

Crawley nodded. “You’ve not been asked to hitch a ride then?”

The thought had obviously never occurred to Aziraphale, he blinked, staring at Crawley, almost as if he no longer even noticed the creepy yellow-slitted eyes that were so different from every other pair of eyes on the planet. “Oh. Well. No?” he offered up a nervous smile, “I haven’t been instructed to, you see. Or invited. Or asked. The Almighty thinks that Noah and his family will be just fine without any angelic intervention.” A pause. A thought and then the smile was brighter this time, the worries assuaged in his own mind, the divine will evaluated. “What about you?”

Crawley shrugged. He had absolutely no desire to head back down to Hell; it was aptly named and he always worried that the next time he went down, well, that they just wouldn’t let him back up again. In addition to that, he was starting to understand that there were things up top that he really would struggle to live without…

Not the Australians the angel had said? Or the Chinese? Maybe he’d take a trip to the Far East, then. “I’ll hang around up here,” he tried to make it sound casual. “Head east perhaps.”

A wash of worry flooded Aziraphale’s expression and, absently, Crawley wondered if perhaps the Almighty hadn’t planned that Crawley himself would have been one of her victims here. And maybe he would have been, without warning from the angel – it was a sobering thought. Aziraphale looked out of the open doorway, staring intently at the muddy ground. “But,” his eyes darted back to Crawley. “If that’s the case, surely you should be making a start already? The Almighty is serious about these rains…”

Crawley never doubted that for a moment, but there was something about these little encounters between him and the angel had that drew him in, made him treasure every single moment. They were few and far between, a highlight of his existence, and he was never going to be the one to walk away from one, never mind the danger it put him in. “I’ll be okay,” he cracked a rueful smile, after all, he usually was. “I can swim.” It was hardly comforting that Aziraphale still looked concerned.

He changed the subject, “So, when you come back are you sticking around here, then? It’ll be awfully quiet for a while until that lot,” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder to where the ark was still filling, wiggling his brows suggestively, “get busy.”

He’d expected Aziraphale to get snippy at that, to flush and stutter and mumble out an awkward reply, but he seemed totally unphased, his forehead creased in thought as he considered Crawley’s words. “Yes, of course,” the frown deepened. “I hadn’t thought of that, really. Quiet indeed… a decided lack of options…”

He tailed off, deep in thought and Crawley sipped his beer as he considered him, pondering, wondering and then, an unlikely light-bulb moment, “You’ve been _dallying_ with them!”

Aziraphale looked incredibly awkward, but still managed to draw himself upright, primly straightening his clothing as he studiously avoided Crawley’s eye. “Really, _dallying_? Must you make it sound quite so sordid?”

Crawley raised a single brow this time, “Believe me, angel. I can make it sound a whole lot more sordid than that.”

Aziraphale shuffled uncomfortably and sipped his beer, decidedly not making any eye contact with Crawley whilst Crawley silently studied him, mulling it all over in his mind, but no matter which way he studied it, he couldn’t get it to make any sense. “So, I thought that the big cheese frowned on all that _dallying_ ,” he leant in a little, dropped his voice, eyes darting around the room as he spoke. “Because of the, you know… _Nephilim_.”

That got Aziraphale’s eyes back on him, and that pouty little frown that always made Crawley smile. “Crawley please, not here…” his eyes skipped around the room and, satisfied that no one was eavesdropping on them, settled reluctantly Crawley’s way again. “This is nothing to do with _that_ , you know.”

“No?”

“No.” More uncomfortable shuffling. “It’s a very pleasurable sensation.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Aziraphale shot him a disbelieving stare, “And there are ways you know, of accessing the pleasure, without any of the danger of, you know, of…” he made a vaguely confusing gesture which Crawley guessed was supposed to indicate the Nephilim.

Folding his arms, Crawley sat back and considered him. “Knocking off early, angel? I would have thought you were more of a gentleman than that. It’s not all about _you_ , you know.”

“I _know_ , Crawley.”

It was pleasing to see how irate he’d made him.

“Only one gender can produce off-spring, don’t forget. _And_ I’ve never had any complaints.”

Crawley was struck dumb, and he wasn’t sure if that was the reference to men, or the implied sexual proficiency. Call him naïve, but he’d never yet considered Aziraphale in either category.

Strangely, the angel seemed a mixture of mortified and smug, but either way, he’d obviously decided that he’d had enough of the conversation as he downed the rest of his cup in one and rose, stuffily, to his feet, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his hands held primly in front of him. Knowing that Aziraphale was uncomfortable allowed Crawley to recoup some of his own swagger and he held up his cup in farewell, smirking in the way he knew the angel hated. “Going so soon?” he asked, allowing honey to drip from every syllable.

“I am, yes. I’ve allowed you to distract me here far too long as it is.”

Crawley only raised an eyebrow at that, but it was enough to get Aziraphale flushing and hustling towards the door and the deluge outside. Once there he seemed to remember the Almighty’s plans for the region and his face crumpled into worry once more, he paused and glanced back at the grinning demon at the table, opening his mouth as if he were going to say something, but then just shaking his head and, with his chin in the air, stepped out into the storm.

He took Crawley’s smile with him as he went, and for the rest of the hour, he just sat at the table, the beer untouched, his forehead creased in a frown, his thoughts in turmoil, until the consternation of the humans as the water started lapping into the shelter, raised him from his stupor. He looked outside, took in the grey sky and the greyer floods that were just starting to swallow the land and rose, stiffly, to his feet.

Looked like China was off then, not that he’d really wanted to go anyway. Looked like he needed to consider how he was going to last this one out without having to drag himself down below for any amount of time. He splashed outside, his hair and his robes instantly soaked, wondering if his wings were up to extended flying, or whether there was room for a single red-bellied snake on that boat. Either way, he would make sure that he was still about when Aziraphale came back to check on the damage – suddenly, the angel had made himself even more intriguing than before.


	3. Mesopotamia, 3003 BC

Mesopotamia, 3003 BC

(5,021 years until the End of the World)

Crawley sat on the ruined wall, all that was left of what had once been a family home, and stared out at the empty landscape. The silence was the most overwhelming thing, he thought. No bird song, no animal calls, not even the sound of insects; all of them, gone. Well, not all, obviously, there were the chosen few who’d been selected to board the ark along with Noah and his _righteous_ family. Crawley stared, sightlessly at the endlessly blank vista, how did the Almighty choose which mice were righteous though? Which termites? Which camels?

Crawley had watched the rest die. All of them. The animals, the men, the children, all equally confused and despairing. He’d watched them flounder in the rising waters, he’d listened to their pleas and prayers. He’d watched the few with boats cram their families aboard only to die a long, uncomfortable death from thirst. He’d seen the fear in the eyes of the beasts, the rolling whites of the cattle as they realised they could no longer keep their heads above water. He’d seen children, held aloft by parents who had eventually slipped under the lapping waves only to leave their precious offspring to die, terrified and alone, in the hours that followed. He’d watched exhausted birds, their cries becoming more and more frantic as they circled, endlessly, looking for somewhere they could land before, inevitably, crashing into the waves and perishing like all the others.

And then he saw the bodies, washed together in huge rafts of putrid flesh, man, beast, bird; food for the sea creatures and river creatures the Almighty _didn’t_ want to exterminate. All that life, all that hope and wonder and love and potential, everything Crawley had watched develop from the earliest days of the garden – all just gone.

He hadn’t had to retreat down below, in the end, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to try and steal aboard the boat of the righteous, either. He could swim, he’d told Aziraphale, and he could, especially as a snake, especially as a demonic snake that didn’t need food or water and wouldn’t become waterlogged or exhausted by an extended spell at sea. Didn’t mean that he’d enjoyed it at all though. Watching everything die around him, powerless to help… Navigating his way through the few clear channels in a sea full of rotting corpses… Floating for weeks, months, through an empty sea-scape, wishing he’d gone to China, wondering if the Almighty was ever going to call a halt to the rains, deliberating whether this was the fate of the damned, to spend the rest of eternity afloat on a barren ocean, hoping, often beyond hope, that he would get to see the stupid, fussy angel just one more time. He hadn’t even been able to sleep it all away.

Eventually, the floods receded, and Crawley found himself in a landscape of mud and skeletal trees. He had no idea where Noah and his family had got to, or the floating menagerie, and, in truth, had no desire to see their joy and thankfulness at being saved. Instead, he curled up under a rock and slept, awakening to find the horrific images of the slaughter still fresh in his mind. So, he had reverted back into his more-human form, taking a while to get used to the feeling of limbs again, and wandered the empty lands, hoping against hope that he’d find a little pocket of humanity or fauna that had escaped the deluge.

There was nothing though. Not a single spark of life and, eventually, he gave up looking and simply sat, staring out over nothing, waiting, just waiting.

It was a clear, silent morning when it happened. He was staring out across the land, wondering if it was starting to look a little greener at last, when he felt the frisson of angelic energy behind him. There was nothing to say that it was Aziraphale, all angels felt the same to Crawley, even stupid, fussy ones, and, really, he should have been more aware, more conscious of the fact that, at any moment, there could have been some smiting going on. Really though, he didn’t care, after everything he’d seen and experienced, it was hard to, and so he just waited.

Cautious footsteps sounded behind him and then there was the rough _thump_ of a figure sitting at his side. He braced himself for whatever ridiculous justification the angel was planning on coming up with, but, thankfully, there was nothing. Just silence – and a shared sense of mourning; Crawley was so grateful he could have cried.

They sat there the whole day, watching as the sun bled into red and dipped below the horizon, shivering slightly as the sky morphed through violet and indigo to deepest blue and star-studded black and then, finally, there was a quiet, almost timid voice at his side.

“They really are all gone.”

A wave of anger was Crawley’s first response to that. Really? Of course they bloody were – was the angel really that stupid as to think that the Almighty had been _joking_ about this? But then, he heard the layers of bewilderment in there and his chest tightened in some un-named emotion. No, not joking then, but maybe Aziraphale had _hoped_ , and it seemed that the hope had been very soundly crushed, and why did that hurt _him_ so much?

He sighed, “Yeah,” and the hurt inside him just brought back all the anger. “You’ll be missing all of those _options_ , then, won’t you?”

He felt the angel turn to look at him. “You know they were more to me than that.”

Did he? Were they? Ever since he’d heard that Aziraphale used the humans to scratch his itches he didn’t know what to think.

“You don’t know what it’s like, to be down here, all alone, without the comfort of the Host around me.”

Crawley bit his tongue; really, how stupid could one angel be?

“It was hard, before, to be down here with everyone else up there. To hardly see them or speak to them and when I did… well, it wasn’t like it had been before.” His eyes were on the distant dark line of horizon, but Crawley could see the bewilderment in them now; it seemed that it wasn’t just the Almighty who had been disappointing him. “So, being with the humans was _nice_ , you know?”

Crawley did not know. He did not do _nice._

“They were warm and comforting and welcoming and, well, it was just nice. More than nice really, it felt _wonderful_.” He shot a surreptitious glance Crawley’s way, “But what am I telling you this for? You know what I mean, of course you do.”

Of course he did. He was a demon, right? Obviously, he’d be an absolute expert on sins of the flesh.

“I was quite looking forward to getting back into Heaven,” somehow it came out as a guilty admission, “but then, when I got there…” he tailed off at that and dropped his eyes to his lap, fiddling with his fingers and that pain blossomed in Crawley’s chest again, the pain he hated, the pain that made him vicious.

“What? You realised that none of them were pleased to see you? None of them had even missed you when you’d been down on Earth?” And did that make him the very best kind of demon? That he could kick a soft and fluffy angel like this? When the angel was already down? Beelzebub would be impressed with him.

A sigh of agreement reached his ears; then, “Quite.” 

Crawley hung his head, what a mis-matched pair of outcasts they were.

“But you’ll miss them too,” a cautious hand landed on his thigh. “I know you will.”

He already did.

“Who will you now tempt?”

Ah. Yes.

“You could tempt me…”

Crawley’s head shot up. That hadn’t been a question, that had been a statement of fact and really, what did that mean Aziraphale _thought_ of him? Crawley really wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. “I wouldn’t,” why was his voice so rough? “You think I want you to Fall?”

There was a moment, long enough that Crawley knew that, yes, the angel had thought _just_ that, before. “No, of course not.”

He wondered if that meant it was dropped but the hand was still there, burning through his robes, and then, quietly, “I could tempt _you_ though. _You_ won’t Fall,” and the hand shifted, rubbing cautious circles as Crawley sat and stared at it and felt his entire body light up with that touch. The air shifted then, another little frisson and thick, reed mats materialised into existence before them, dotted with cushions and blankets and such luxurious trappings of the human world that Crawley had not seen for this past year.

He still hadn’t replied, but the touch on his thigh shifted to his hand and Aziraphale moved, drawing Crawley with him until they were both laid on the matting, nose to nose, hands still interlinked, the angel’s blue eyes peering carefully into his own cursed ones. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he whispered and damn it, if that stupid pain in Crawley’s chest didn’t flare up once more. “It’s just comfort. It’s just pleasure, and temptation. It’s what you should be doing anyway, right?”

With no words, Crawley could only nod and Aziraphale seemed to take that as consent as the hand not gripping the demon’s own then travelled downwards, sliding under the hem of Crawley’s robes and lifting them up, exposing him and his erection to the Heavens above. Crawley didn’t say anything, what was there to say? He simply allowed Aziraphale to position him, to shift him on to his knees on the mats and there, in the empty world, under the banner of stars that he himself had created, mount him and let them both feel more pleasure than they had done since the first drop of rain fell.

Afterwards, there was no more touching, but they did lie together, side by side under the blankets, as their breathing settled and Aziraphale could whisper, “It doesn’t mean anything,” he seemed very keen for Crawley to understand that point, “you don’t need to worry.”

And why would Crawley worry anyway? That night, one of the empty ones when the Earth had been scoured clean of (almost) every sinner, he’d dropped his head and allowed an angel to strip him naked and take his virginity. How could that possibly make him any more Damned than he already was?

When he awoke in the morning, Aziraphale had already gone, with absolutely no idea what he’d taken that night – what he’d been given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History Note: Noah's Ark. Obviously :)


	4. The Sinai Peninsula, 1496 BC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags - more added :)

The Sinai Peninsula, 1496 BC

(3,514 years until the End of the World)

Crawley sat with his back to a large, flat stone, and watched, equal parts trepidation and cautious excitement as the show started to kick off in front of him. He’d kept his distance, a good five miles he’d felt was a decent margin, but he was curious enough to remain, when really, all the divinity in the air should have sent him running for the other side of the world.

Something big was happening, something huge, it was probably inevitable after all those plagues. There’d been other angels in the area for weeks, flitting around with their holier-than-thou expressions and self-important vibes, making Crawley’s hair stand on end in constant fear of a smiting. He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, though, and hadn’t been able to check in with Aziraphale either, as he had, understandably, been on his best behaviour ever since the whole thing had whirled into action. How big could it be? Crawley mused to himself. The Almighty had already taken the huge steps of populating this showcase world, allowing it to fill with the descendants of the original sinners, wiped them all out and then grown a world full of people again – from more righteous stock this time – what was there left to do? It amused Crawley no end to see that _this_ world, populated with the off-spring of Noah, rather than Adam and Eve, was turning out to be just as full of evil and dishonesty and lies and cheating as before. Maybe even more so. It certainly made his job as resident demon a lot easier.

So yes, mountains, angels, plenty of fleeing Israelites, that decent old guy Moses… the players were all in place and now Crawley just had to wait for the main event to start. He’d need to watch carefully so that he could report back downstairs; at least, that’s what he told himself. 

It kicked off in typical over-the-top fashion, with one of the mountains in front of him suddenly being enveloped in cloud. As Crawley watched, it quaked and was filled with smoke, rather like a volcano. Next on the agenda were lightning-flashes, bursting from the sky immediately above the favoured mountain and, finally, the deafening roar of thunder mingled with the blasts of a trumpet and a fire burning fiercely at the summit. It was a good show, that was undeniable, Heaven always had had a flair for the dramatic, and at least, now, Crawley knew _what_ the occasion was, his insides almost curdling as he fought off the most-undemonic desire to prostrate himself at the foot of the mountain, both of which tipped him off that this was the Biggest Boss on a very rare visit to Earth. It was a shame he still didn’t know _why_.

He watched the dancing flames at the summit and the cowering Israelites at the foot, and ruthlessly held in check his own desire to cower whilst waiting for it all to blow over and for him to get a chance to talk to Aziraphale about it, see what had been going on.

It took longer than he’d thought. He’d had to endure almost sixty days of loitering before Aziraphale sought him out. In the end, he’d decamped to Di-Zahav, finding the residual divine essence around the mountain to be far more than he could stand and, instead, spent his days sitting sipping apple tea and _waiting_ more patiently than he’d ever felt possible.

It had been fifty-two years since he’d last seen the angel. Fifty-two years and he’d found himself watching out for him for every one of those years. Didn’t matter where he’d been, didn’t matter what he was supposed to have been doing, he doubted that there was a waking hour of those fifty-two years when he hadn’t had some portion of his brain on Aziraphale-alert, he doubted that any one would believe the amount of white-blond men there were out there.

He saw him coming from the other side of the quay, hurrying along, somehow knowing exactly where Crawley would be, in an obvious rush, but still full of smiles, still politely avoiding all around him, even the ones that were just blatantly getting in his way. He looked tired though, worn down, and why did that bother Crawley so much?

“Hello! Crawley!” he offered up a blinding smile for all of half a second, and then seemed to think better of it, shutting down any visible pleasure at their reunion, and instead, sliding into his seat with his eyes surreptitiously running around the edges of the bustling quay around them.

“There’s no one here. No one ethereal anyway. Or occult. You don’t think I’d check?” That thumping feeling in his chest was, no doubt, irritation with the angel for not knowing that Crowley was no fool.

“Oh, thank _goodness_ for that!” Aziraphale seemed to sag right back into the embrace of his seat. “I am so heartily sick of them all being here, you know…” he took a long swig of the wine that Crawley poured for him. “I mean, I knew that there would be visitors, you know, so many arrangements to coordinate! But honestly, why did they have to stay so long and why did they have to stay so _close_!”

“What’s the matter, angel?” Crawley topped up both of their cups. “The divine Host getting in the way of your hedonism, then?”

Aziraphale shot him a filthy look, as Crawley absolutely expected he would. “I am _not_ a hedonist,” he retorted, blue eyes flashing Aziraphale’s way. “It’s cover. I’m sick of telling you that.”

He was too, which was the only reason that Crawley ever said it. “So, what’s been the problem, then? I would have thought you’d have loved having the family to stay?”

“Oh, I have done!” Aziraphale’s smile was brittle. “But, well… you know…”

He tailed off and Crawley took a long mouthful of his own drink as the angel’s eyes slid down to his lap. It was the same old story; those dick-heads up there all thinking that they were better than the angel they had down here. Essentially, it was why Aziraphale _was_ down here. But why was he surprised? The lot of them had made narrow-mindedness into a form of existence. “Big occasion,” he prompted, wanting the glum off Aziraphale’s face. “Must have been to have the big guy popping by.”

A cornucopia of expressions flitted across Aziraphale’s face at that. Pride. Excitement. Caution. Shame… Crawley could barely keep up. He settled on aloof, though – one he often used when discussing Heavenly issues with a demon. “Well, I’m not really sure how much I’m at liberty to say, to be quite honest.”

Crawley let out a sigh as he inspected his finger nails. Really? That was how this was going to go? He looked up, flashed out a smile and leaned in a little. “Moses, the guy with the _big beard_ is the flavour of the month. He gets to take the Heavenly Fan Club out of Mizraim, with a nifty little sea-splitting miracle just to make things a bit easier. Then he comes all the way out here for an appointment with the Big Boss, where he gets given a set of party instructions on some fuck-off tablet of stone. He makes his way down the mountain with his instruction manual, _accidently breaks it_ , has to go back and ask for another and then comes down again, ready to tell everyone how they should live their lives in a proper and seemly and _Godly_ manner. That about nail it?”

Aziraphale leaned back, his lips pressed together into a thin line, his spine a flag pole of outrage. “Well, really. I don’t know why you summoned me here if all you wanted to do was to show off what you already knew…”

Folding his arms, Crawley flopped back into his own seat. How did this angel have the ability to always make him feel so shitty about himself? “I’ve been waiting here for weeks, Aziraphale. I have ears,” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and Crawley blew out a breath, admitting, “I didn’t know a thing when I invited you here.”

Aziraphale seemed slightly mollified by that, allowing his posture to slip just a smidgen as he delicately sipped at his wine.

“So, I know about the instruction manual, but what I don’t know,” Aziraphale met his eye as he leaned back in, “how seriously do they,” Crawley nodded at the passing humans, “have to stick to it all? I mean, if they slide off schedule, are we talking another… you know…” he nipped his nose and blew out his cheeks, miming slipping beneath the waves as Aziraphale shook his head, his nose curling.

“Really, Crawley… must you?” he shook his head. “But no, I don’t believe so. Ah, excuse me my good man,” he snared the passing owner with a winning smile. “Could we have a plate of your delightful oiled sardines, please?” He glanced Crawley’s way who gave him a nod, “Two, actually, if that’s alright?” He waited until they were alone again and then glanced over both of his shoulders before continuing. “I think they’re designed to be more like _guidelines_ , really, no, more than that. Not guidelines, _commandments_ , the people are _commanded_ to follow them.”

Crawley held his gaze, “And if they don’t?”

A shrug, “Well. They won’t get into Heaven when they die, will they?”

They waited until the sardines had been delivered, Crawley offering a dry, “That’s another commendation heading my way, then,” as Aziraphale rolled his eyes and tucked in.

__ **__

The afternoon slid into evening and the lights of the little quay danced on gently lapping waves as Crowley emptied the last of the third jug of wine into their cups. “And then they never asked again, and so I just carried on,” he was carrying little spots of red, high on his cheek bones, whilst his smile was sloppy and fond.

Aziraphale was holding his chin in his palm and smiling indulgently as the end of the story wound on. “Goodness me, you _were_ lucky!”

“Lucky? Pah…” Crawley felt his grin widen. “Skill, angel. And cunning.”

“Absolutely!”

They were so close, both leaning over the table and Crowley found his eyes sliding down to Aziraphale’s lips – forbidden treasure – probably the only part of the angel’s body he’d not yet touched.

Seventeen times they’d indulged in carnal activities, not that Crawley had been counting of course. But still, seventeen times in fifteen hundred years, it was both too much and not enough all at once and was absolutely _not_ the thing he thought about every night when he was alone.

Seventeen times, and every one of them followed the same pattern. Aziraphale instigated, Crawley would never dare. Aziraphale set the pace and the length of contact – again, how would Crawley ever know what was appropriate for an angel? And Aziraphale set the rules, _the commandments_ , but not, thankfully, on tablets of stone.

Crawley knew them anyway, they were etched into some painful part of him, something to fear and loathe and cling on to, all at the same time. No tenderness; no care. No talking during; no endearments _ever_. Aziraphale started it; Aziraphale finished it, there was no _afterwards_. Crawley was never asked; his consent was presumed by his mere presence. It was never discussed; it was never pre-arranged. Crawley’s abode; not Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale delivered; Crawley received. And no kissing. Not ever. And, whilst Crawley could understand the sense of all of the others (he was a demon, after all) he hated that final one, and hated himself for never challenging _any of it_.

And then, just like every time before, Aziraphale smiled at him and it was the smile that could have said that he thought Crawley was something wonderful, but actually said that he just wanted to fuck him, and Crawley felt his heart soar and sink all at the same time.

A hand slid into his lap underneath the table top, deft fingers tugging at his robes, sliding them up and up and up until those warm digits could brush, gently through the hairs on his thighs. The angel didn’t speak, but his smile widened slightly, breaking into smug as Crawley just sat there and let him slide further, further, further up, until, with a ragged sigh, he dropped his forehead into his hand and let his eyes flutter closed as Aziraphale wrapped oiled fingers around his erection, pumping quickly enough to risk a rather premature ending.

“You have rooms here?” he asked, and Crawley could do nothing else but nod, jerking desperately as his cock was abandoned and Aziraphale slid his chair back across the dirty tiles. “Off you go then,” another commandment, “I’ll follow discretely. Make sure you’re ready when I join you.”

Crawley said nothing but instantly complied, trying to adjust his robes to make his erection less obvious as he stood. Aziraphale smiled at him, something like pride in there and nodded and Crawley turned to leave.

The spots of red had spread, port wine stains flushing across most of his face. Alcohol? Yes. Arousal? Undoubtedly. And shame? _Yes_ , Crawley thought, and how terribly wrong was that? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History Note: The Sinai Peninsula is one of the possible locations cited for Mount Sinai, where God is said to have given Moses the Ten Commandments.


	5. Great Wall of China, 317 AD

Great Wall of China, 317 AD (1,701 years until the End of the World)

“Crowley? Crawley? _Crowley?_ Is that you?”

Crowley winced (and really, why should he?) turning to meet the angel head on, his expression blank under the dark tinted eyewear he favoured. “Aziraphale. Fancy seeing you here.”

Aziraphale positively beamed at him and Crowley felt a twinge of something a little uncomfortable behind his ribs. “Absolutely! It’s been ever such a long time!”

It had been. Three hundred and nine years to be precise, none of them accidental.

“I should really have guessed that you were behind all this though, somehow,” incredibly, he was still beaming. “I had heard that Tonghou had a _wily_ advisor,” eyebrows were waggled in a half-hearted form of admonishment, “and I did _wonder_ …” he beamed anew.

Crowley had come out to survey the portion of the wall they had taken with a small band of men, each of whom who were starting to look at both him and Aziraphale with disguised suspicion. Irritated, he sighed, flicking his hand to vanish the sceptical stares and steering Aziraphale back down the track to the Tatar camp.

No one else paused to show them any attention, a feat that Crowley resented having to spend energy on, and they didn’t speak until they were in Crowley’s tent, the heavy drapes tugged closed to afford them as much privacy as possible. Once Crowley was sure they were hidden from view, he folded his arms across his chest and started. “Angel, what are you doing-”

“This really is a lovely, large tent, you know.”

He stopped short, swallowing his words as Aziraphale turned circles, his hands grasped in front of him, the same huge smile spread across his features.

“They must really like you here.”

Slowly, Crowley lowered himself onto the large seating cushions, gesturing for Aziraphale to do the same as he produced a flask of wine from the ether. “They don’t _like_ me, Aziraphale,” he poured for them both, “this is not a social gathering. They are a _tribe_. I am an advisor to their leader.”

“And a good one too!” Aziraphale took an appreciative sip of the wine. “Look what you’ve done here! Not only breached the wall, but you’ve sent the Jin Dynasty running for the hills! Well, to Jiankang if my information is correct, but still!” the smile was starting to give Crowley a headache.

He sighed. “Alright, angel. I’ll bite. What is actually going on here?”

Another mouthful of wine, another flash of the smile and a conspiratorial leaning in, “Well, it seems that up there,” he pointed to the sweeping silk in the roof of Crowley’s tent, aren’t that keen on Jingwen, I was sent here to see if I couldn’t move him on, so to speak.”

Behind his glasses, Crowley blinked. “Move him on? _Kill him_?”

“Goodness me no!” it was a relief to see the back of the blinding smile. “Move him on! Literally. Embarrass him or something. Shed doubt onto his ability to reign. And _you_ have done all that for me! Saved me from any bother at all!”

It was back again, lighting up the tent in its brilliance, but Crowley ignored it, leaning back in his seat and sipping his very nice wine, pondering over the angel’s words. His orders had been very different. Tonghou was a reckless and wild leader. He was driven by personal ambition and had proved ruthless in its pursuit. Downstairs had identified him a wonderful potential source of souls, they’d instructed Crowley to feed his success, to help him amass a great following, and then, when he eventually fell, he would take them all with him. How strange that his orders had been linked so intrinsically with the desires of Heaven. It all seemed rather… random.

“Have you been here long, then?”

And still the angel was talking, but somehow it was soothing, familiar. Maybe these three hundred and nine years of motion had been harder than he’d thought. He tuned back in again. “Erm, a few months, that’s all. Setting up for the big advance really.”

Aziraphale nodded, watching him carefully. “I looked for you, in Rome.”

Crowley felt his cheeks flush and sipped his drink again to try and cover it up. Rome. They’d eaten oysters at Petronius' new restaurant (or rather, Aziraphale had eaten them and Crowley had tried not to bring up the single one he’d tried). Then, they’d gone back to Crowley’s rooms and Aziraphale had had him up against the window recess, Crowley staring out at the thronging masses in the square below, his naked body hidden from view by the angle of the brickwork, Aziraphale, still fully dressed, driving into him from behind, holding his wrists in an iron grip, forcing him to just _take_ until he’d finally come untouched.

It had been a blinding orgasm, they always were, but he’d come back to himself slumped over the wide sill, floods of warm semen running down his thighs, the angel already gone, and something inside him had just said, _no_. He’d left the same day, always in motion, never settling, putting as much space between him and any angelic grace as he could sense, right up until this day. And now he was finding it hard to remember why he’d felt the need to do all of that.

He realised that Aziraphale was still waiting for him to answer, had lost his smile, exchanged for something far more like the curtains of doubt that Crowley had been so used to. He pushed out a smile of his own, hoped it didn’t look as guilty as it felt. “I had to leave,” he lied. “Had instructions to follow.”

Aziraphale nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. “You couldn’t have told me you were going?”

Bizarrely, that awoke the strange pain in his chest once more, “You’d never told me where you were lodging.” He hadn’t, that was true - he never did, it was just one of their things.

There was an awkward silence at that, Aziraphale staring at Crowley across the tent, his eyes wide as he considered. Then it was all gone again, washed away in a softer smile and a, “Well, tell me what you’ve been up to then, serpent, I feel like I need a refresher on my thwarting.”

Crowley laughed, felt something inside him loosen a little and poured them both some more wine. “I went into Greece from Rome. You been there recently? They’ve been busy inventing all kinds of Earthly delights, angel.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Ooh – do tell!”

Crowley did. 

__ **__

The afternoon rolled on into evening and evening into the thick of night and Aziraphale and Crowley sat on their cushions next to each other and stared into the fire and caught up. They were still drinking from the same jug, Crowley expected it to last for them and so it did, and he was pleasantly buzzed, not drunk, it was hardly strong stuff, but just feeling warm and loose, struggling to remember why he’d spent so much of the last three centuries desperately trying to avoid the angel.

“And some of the poems written by Prudentius and Juvencus are simply wonderful! Porfirius as well actually, and they are such charming men. We had some really lovely gatherings where they read their poems, and we had all manner of delicious food-”

“Oysters?”

“Absolutely! And octopus, dormice, telline clams… oh Crowley, you would have loved it! I’d wished you were there many, _many_ times-” he stopped, seemed to swallow his tongue and flashed out a bright smile before burying his face in his cup and gulping down a generous mouthful. Crowley watched him from the corner of his eye and the safety of his dark lenses, noting the flush that spread over his cheeks and hoping that he himself wasn’t showing any of his discomfit.

“I think I’ve heard some of Porfirius’ poems,” he couldn’t seem to resist filling in over Aziraphale’s awkwardness, doing his best to smooth conversation along again. “Dreadful, droning things. One of the best things about this part of the world is the complete lack of poetry. They’re all too busy killing people in a variety of increasingly violent manners,” he frowned at the thought. “I don’t know why Beelzebub thought Tonghou needed any prompting from me…”

“Not prompting!” Aziraphale seemed to have combobulated himself once more, “Tonghou is uncontrolled and hasty. Your job has been reeling him in a little, making him think before he acted. Without you instilling him with caution, his campaign would have been over long before they reached the Wall.”

Crowley stared into his cup, “And many more people would still be alive.”

“Or not. You said yourself, these people are violent.”

They slid into silence once more, both staring straight ahead, Crowley suddenly aware of the lateness of the night and the continued risk they were taking by drinking together in Crowley’s tent.

“How much longer are you staying?” the question was posed quietly, quietly enough that Crowley could have pretended that he hadn’t heard it. Not that he would ever have done that.

“Another few weeks. I need to make sure that Tonghou’s campaign has been completely successful.”

He felt Aziraphale turn to look at him, “I’d say that you’ve already ticked that box,” the words were soft, and spoken gently. “I’m heading onwards into Jiankang. We could…” he stuttered to a halt, eyes flickering Crowley’s way before he pushed out a shallow smile. “Well. I’m heading to Jiankang anyway.”

Crowley nodded. “I need to finish up here and then… I don’t know, maybe I’ll head back to Europe again.”

Aziraphale let out a long sigh and went back to staring into his wine, Crowley, wondering why the sharp feeling in his chest was back again, unconsciously imitated him, knowing that in mere moments, the angel would get up and leave and they would probably not see each other again for another three hundred years. Aziraphale did rise then, tugging his silken tunic into a neater semblance and looking down on Crowley’s bent head, his stare weighted and warm.

“I have a set of rooms,” his voice was low. “If you felt…” he didn’t finish, thoughts like that were dangerous to speak out loud.

Crowley’s heart was thudding in his chest. The fingers gripping his cup were shaking slightly. The rules… what about the rules? Three and a half thousand years and things been one way, always Aziraphale’s way, and now, this? Crowley had already decided… he’d hidden for three hundred years just to get Aziraphale out of his system and now this, what was this? But now his response could never be in doubt. He nodded his head, once, sharply, still not looking up, but it was enough for Aziraphale to see.

“Right,” it wasn’t much of a farewell, but a scrap of parchment was laid next to Crowley’s cushion as Aziraphale turned and marched smartly out into the night.

As soon as he’d gone, Crowley’s trembling fingers picked up the scrap and stared at it, committing it to memory, before setting it aflame. He then forced himself to sit perfectly still in his seat for the slow count of two thousand, before pushing to his feet and following the angel out into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History Note: in 317 AD, the Jin Dynasty was in strife, with fighting, regicides and abdications common. A crumbling empire was easy pickings for the bands of marauding nomad groups who took advantage of the chaos and attacked along the length of the Wall border. Eventually, what was left of the Dynasty retreated to Jiankang where they started anew.


	6. Babylon, 586 AD

Babylon, 586 AD (1,432 years until the End of the World)

Eden had been a long time ago, a really long time ago, but the impression it had made on Crowley remained. Maybe it was because it had come after all those years of simply existing in the bowels of Hell, or maybe it really was just that nice, but either way, Crowley thought of it often.

Introspection wasn’t something he was particularly keen on. He was astute enough to realise that a little personal consideration at the right time just might have kept him out of Hell in the first place, which was almost enough to put him off for good, but then to couple that with what he might find in he looked inside himself _now_ , and, no, it was an activity designed for beings who _weren’t_ terrified of what they might find. But he didn’t need introspection to realise that, somehow, the Garden had _sung_ to him. If he’d known what he knew now regarding the consequences of tempting Eve with that damn apple, would he have still done it? Would he have followed Hell’s directives knowing he was about to get all four of them kicked out for good? Eh… probably, yeah; he did have that much of a destructive streak, but still, didn’t mean he couldn’t miss it.

And miss it he did. Not that he’d ever tell anyone, not that he had anyone to tell… not even the angel. Especially not the angel with his infuriatingly high opinions of himself, that manner he had of looking down his nose at everything Crowley was, his unshakable belief in all things angelic or Godly. It honestly made him sick, especially when he thought of what transpired on those forbidden nights of theirs, if the rest of the angelic host could see what he got up to with a demon under the cover of darkness, well, there’d be no awards headed his way for that, that was certain.

Angrily, Crowley shook some sense into himself, he got plenty of pleasure out of their forbidden trysts himself, and if the stupid angel wasn’t going to consider them working together on their temptations and miracles, then at least there was one arrangement he could enjoy. And he wasn’t here to think about that anyway, not now, not when he’d managed to con some decent downtime away from the constant demands of Hastur and Ligur, not when he’d managed to find the next best thing to the Garden of Eden.

He closed his eyes, let out a long breath of satisfaction and lay back in the grass, content with the sounds of the birds and insects, and the dappled sunlight warming him through. Crowley hadn’t been that keen on old King Nebuchadnezzar II, he’d been a bit of a pompous old ass, but Queen Amytis, had been alright, she’d had a very dry sense of humour which he supposed she’d need living with that crusty old fool, but Neb had done a grand job on the gardens, grand indeed, and now so many years after Amytis had joined her old man in the after-life, Crowley had them all to himself.

“Crowley?”

Or _had_ had them all to himself.

He cracked open an eye and found Aziraphale, of course, standing there staring at him with the most ridiculously shocked expression on his face and a tunic that was just a little too long to be considered the height of current fashion. He sighed, closed his eye again and with a dry, “Angel,” tried to rescue some semblance of his previous state of bliss. At least he’d managed to get his name right this time, he supposed.

“What are you doing here?”

Crowley bit back a sigh. “I’m on holiday. I’m relaxing,” or at least, he had been.

There was another sigh that met his ears then, followed by a great deal of shuffling and shifting as the angel settled himself at Crowley’s side and then a quiet, “I could really do with you _not_ being here, dear fellow, to be honest.”

This time Crowley cracked open both of his eyes. And lifted his head from the grass. And glared Aziraphale’s way, glarefully. “What?” It appeared that it was his turn to be shocked.

Aziraphale seemed to cave in on himself a little. He looked all around them both, over his shoulders, down into the next level of the terrace below and then leaned in, obviously hating every word of what he was about to say. “I have a very important job to do, here, and I really don’t need you ruining it all for me.”

Crowley blinked at him, “Why not?”

“What?”

“Why not? What’s so important about this job? I’m the adversary, I thwart your good plans, you thwart my evil ones, it’s what we do,” he shrugged. “It’s never bothered you much before.”

“Of course it’s bothered me!” Aziraphale hissed and then seemed to recover himself, “But yes, you are correct, and thwarting is what we do, except,” again his face crumbled in a way that woke that stupid pain up in Crowley’s chest. “Except that this is ever so important to me!”

Ignoring the tightening around his ribs, Crowley frowned. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why is this one so important? You didn’t make this much fuss when I thwarted you in Abyssinia last time.”

“No.”

“So, what’s this then? What’s so important about this one? Oh no…” he sat up, holiday forgotten and Aziraphale turned to meet his flat stare, “You’re not bringing another Son of God down are you? The miserable end of the last one not enough for you all?”

“No, no! Nothing like that! It’s just…” Aziraphale wilted once more and dropped his head, staring at his fingers and Crowley watched as he worried the skin around his nails, picking at them, making them red and sore and, he let out a sigh of his own.

“Just what, angel?” he asked as gently as he could, “What’s going on?”

He waited, watched the anxiously picking fingers and then, “No one’s really that happy with me up there at the minute,” he admitted to his over-long tunic.

“What?” Crowley couldn’t work out where the wave of anger inside him had come from. “Why ever not?”

Aziraphale looked up, “It’s all the thwarting you’ve been doing!” he wailed. “It’s been noticed, and my lack of success against you has been noticed too! And Gabriel’s not happy and more souls have gone your way instead of ours this month and he’s given me this one to prove to him that I’m not inept-”

“You’re not inept!”

“-and if it doesn’t work out then there may be _sanctions_ against me!”

The pain was back in Crowley’s chest. “Sanctions?”

“Yes! A limit on my power, or a miracle-quota or something like that!”

Crowley shook his head as he flopped back into the grass. “Not eternal torture then? A lifetime in the deepest pits of hell? Extermination?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer and they fell into a heavy silence, broken, minutes later by them both speaking at once.

“It’s alright, dear fellow, it doesn’t matter-”

“What we need, angel, is an _Arrangement_ …”

Aziraphale whirled around, clearly outraged, “What? No!”

Crowley lifted his glasses up and met Aziraphale’s stare, “ _Another_ arrangement.”

And this time the angel flushed and straightened his spine a few degrees, “I said, _no_ , Crowley. I said no in England, and I said no in Abyssinia! How many more times do I have to tell you?”

Crowley did his best to shrug whilst supine in the long grass. “What can I do then? You can’t expect me to just let you off, what would I get from that? Hell’s punishments are a lot more painful than Heaven’s, after all.”

The silence returned, Aziraphale was back to picking at his nails and Crowley was doing his best to pretend he was all alone once more, but of course things were never going to lie just like that.

“So,” the angel’s voice was quiet, timid and Crowley tried hard not to smile. “What form would you say this Arrangement took?”

Lifting his glasses again, Crowley tried to look innocent, “The new one?” he clarified and Aziraphale blushed.

“Yes, demon, the new one.”

Sliding the shades back into place, Crowley considered. “Oh, I don’t know… nothing too drastic. Stay out of each other's way. Lend a hand when needed… that sort of thing?”

“And we could start it right now? If I agreed?”

Crowley tried not to sound too eager, “Absolutely.”

“And you’d leave? Let me do my work without interference?”

Crowley felt his nose wrinkling in distaste. He _liked_ it here. He’d worked hard for this holiday. There was nowhere else on the planet that reminded him of Eden like the old gardens of Babylon. “What about if I just promise to stay up here? In the gardens? And stay right out of your way?” He was attempting to be casual about it all, but something in the widening of Aziraphale’s eyes made him think that, perhaps, he’d over played his hand.

Aziraphale’s entire posture softened and it awoke Crowley’s anger once more, but he ruthlessly bit it down; this Arrangement was important. “Okay,” he relented, the edges of a smile playing over his lips, “You stay up here, enjoy your holiday and I’ll go and do God’s work,” he held out his hand.

Crowley’s lip curled in disgust, “Her work…” he muttered under his breath, but he gripped Aziraphale’s hand firmly before it could be withdrawn. “I agree,” he promised, lifting his glasses once more. “Now you go and get lost and let me enjoy the peace up here.”

The angel didn’t answer, but Crowley could just about taste his happiness as he almost skipped towards the nearest set of clay steps.

__ ** __

It was a beautifully clear night, Crowley sat, crossed legged and stared at the stars, allowed himself to remember, refused to let himself mope. He’d needed these few days of verdant solitude, maybe not as much as he’d needed Eden after his enforced stay in Hell, but he’d still needed the break. And maybe Babylon wasn’t quite the first garden, but it had been nice to lie in the greenery and stare up at the blue sky and not have to think about Hastur, or Ligur or Satan or Beezlebub or any of them really. He’d _really_ needed it.

He had thought of Aziraphale though, and that had taken the edge off his break a little. He’d not been able to help wondering where he was, how the work had been going, whether it would be enough to get Gabriel off his back for a while and why the Hell should Crowley even care about any of that? It wasn’t like he didn’t have issues of his own, it wasn’t like he didn’t get into trouble himself when the angel scuppered his plans, it wasn’t like he wasn’t constantly walking his own tightrope of terror. And he was supposed to be having a break from it all, a holiday from the demon-ing. He couldn’t help cringing at it all; how completely undemonic could one demon possibly be?

His thoughts were interrupted, however, by the sound of footsteps heading his way, a merry little tune hummed under angelic breath and, within a moment, there was Aziraphale, crashing through the undergrowth in a way that suggested that wine had been imbued that evening. Despite himself, Crowley smiled; damn that angel, how did he manage to do this to him every time?

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s face lit up like a sunrise and Crowley made sure that his own expression was back to blank and uninterested.

“Angel.”

There was much shuffling and stumbling and at one point a bare, angelic foot landed right on top of his shin, but eventually Aziraphale was settled at his side, happily beaming into Crowley’s expressionless face, a half-empty carafe of wine held out in offering. “I came to find you.”

“I realised.”

“I brought wine.”

“I can see.”

He didn’t move though, and Aziraphale faltered for a moment, his smile wavering, before offering, “Would you like some?”

Crowley still didn’t crack a smile, but he did answer, “Obviously,” and took the carafe from Aziraphale’s fingers.

They sat for a while, the wine being passed to and fro between them, as they had done so many times in the past, its level never seeming to drop, Crowley absently wondering why it never bothered the angel to share with a demon in such an intimate manner. But then, considering what else they got up to together, intimately, it probably shouldn’t surprise him at all.

“It all go alright then?” in the end, he couldn’t help asking.

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale was still beaming. “It went like a _dream_! The eldest princess of the Court, well, she-”

“Ah, ah, ah!” Crowley held up a hand and leant away slightly, his face creased as though he’d sucked at a lime, and met Aziraphale’s eyes. There was a moment of confusion, then he watched the dawning in Aziraphale’s expression and relaxed into a more comfortable position once more, eyes back on the stars, wine sliding softly down his throat, enjoying the quiet company and wishing the angel would leave all at the same time.

“Of course,” Aziraphale muttered.

The stars wove their way through the night sky, but Crowley was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on them. The angel was so close to him, their thighs almost touching, their fingers brushing as the carafe went backwards and forwards and all he could do was _remember_. It had made little sense to him at first, their false intimacy, he’d thought of it in demonic terms as a form of domination and control and hated himself for acquiescing to it all. But then he began to realise that that wasn’t the angel’s style really, as much as Aziraphale absolutely was the controlling factor in their ‘relationship’ he didn’t seem to want to use their coming together as a way of manipulating Crowley, he seemed to just enjoy it.

In fact, he seemed to do an awful lot of things just for the enjoyment they offered him; reading, _eating_ , drinking, socialising – why would incredible sex with a demon be any different?

And it _was_ incredible. Alright, so Crowley might have had nothing else to compare it to, but still, he’d watched enough human-sex over the years to realise that it didn’t last as long and wasn’t as intense as when they did it, and the humans certainly didn’t come as hard as he did. He thought about it now, couldn’t stop himself really, and wondered why Aziraphale sometimes came to him in that way, and sometimes didn’t. They hadn’t done anything in Wessex that time they’d met up. Well, to be honest, it had been so damp and cold that Crowley hadn’t really relished getting his kit off and ending up on his knees on the mouldy floor of some tent in the woods, but still, he would have done. For Aziraphale. And there he was, back to being the worst possible demon there possibly could be. He’d need to watch himself.

His inner monologue of doubt was interrupted then, by a hand on his thigh, the familiar opener, even as Aziraphale’s eyes stubbornly stayed front and centre. He bit back a sigh. Did he want this? Did he want to let Aziraphale use him again? Take pleasure from him? Who was he even trying to kid, here? Of course he did.

He lay backwards, implicit permission, and Aziraphale instantly moved, crawling into the gap between Crowley’s spread legs, smiling to himself as he pushed up the tunic (of a perfectly fashionable length), higher, higher, until Crowley was forced to ease up a little, to let it be tugged off over his shoulders and – just like that – he was naked, laid out on the grass under the stars as an angel raked eyes over him. He refused to be rattled though, he looked good, plenty of humans thought he looked good, he could withstand holy scrutiny, he grit his teeth.

Smiling happily to himself, Aziraphale reached out with both of his hands and spread them on Crowley’s bare thighs. It was hard not to jump and jerk at the touch, he’d had experience of course, but still, an angelic touch like that tingled, especially on the more sensitive patches of skin. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice, or care if he did, and he simply knelt there, rubbing slowly, up and down, and, Crowley closed his eyes in mortification as he realised that he was watching him get hard at the touch. He could take it though, he was beginning to realise that he would take anything that Aziraphale deigned to give him.

Once he was properly hard, once he could feel the weight of his erection as it strained over his belly, desperate for a touch, Aziraphale sat back a little, resting on his haunches and watching, avidly, as he trailed a single finger over the cool, ridged skin of his balls, registering every jolt of his abdomen, every twitch of his cock.

“You’re always so very responsive…”

Crowley screwed his eyes even more tightly shut at that. This was new. Aziraphale had never spoken a word to him before, not once they’d _started_. Was this what he needed to endure now? Not only the way the angel effortlessly took him to pieces, but also needing to tolerate the commentary as well? He wasn’t sure that he _could_.

“Open your legs wider for me.”

Flushing, Crowley did so.

“Oh, yes, you’re very eager for me, aren’t you?”

Crowley was saved from feeling like he needed to reply by a decidedly dry finger pushing tentatively at his opening. His hips shot up, he could feel the weight of his swollen cock as it swung through the cool, night air and Aziraphale, the bastard, actually laughed, a jolly little chuckle that had Crowley back to gritting his teeth.

“But not that eager, hey? You not ready to take me dry yet?”

_No, I’m bloody not_ , the answer was in his head, though, _and I won’t ever be, either, so don’t go getting any ideas._

“Would you like me to stretch you by hand? Or with a quick miracle?”

Crowley pulled his lower lip under his teeth in reply as Aziraphale gently poked his hole once more.

“Which is it to be?”

He’d never been expected to reply before, either, and he knew he couldn’t, not with words at any rate.

“With a miracle, quick and efficient?” Aziraphale circled his finger, watching intently. “Or nice and slowly, with my fingers gradually stretching you wider, getting you ready to take me, slicking you up with some lovely, scented oil I just happen to have on my person?”

He laughed, the bastard actually laughed, at the strangled noise that Crowley couldn’t swallow fast enough, at the way that his cock literally _jumped_ , at the quick burst of pre-come that came flooding out of him; his cheeks darkened with shame.

“The human way, then? Nice and slow?” There was still humour in the oblivious-angel’s tone. “That seemed to get your vote.”

Crowley didn’t reply.

It was slow, as well. By the time that Aziraphale was easily sliding three fingers in and out, Crowley was laid in a flattened patch of vegetation, his glasses gone, his legs spread, his hair mussed and sweated, little noises of desperation leaking out of him, far too far gone to consider what it felt like to be embarrassed.

“Ready?” Aziraphale asked him and, damn it, if he didn’t still sound completely unruffled.

Crowley still didn’t reply, not with his words, instead he flipped over onto his belly, pushing up onto his hands and knees, presenting himself, his head dipped, waiting, and, for once, he seemed to take the angel by surprise.

“Oh,” Aziraphale stopped. “I thought… I was…”

Crowley let out a long breath, “Angel… come on, will you?”

That seemed to do the trick. Aziraphale shuffled forward, taking hold of the blade of Crowley’s hip with one hand, nudging his arse cheeks open with the fingers of the other. Crowley dropped to his elbows, his eyes to the flat of his forearms and bit back the long moan he wanted to make as Aziraphale slid inside him.

“Oh,” the angel was folded along his spine, pressed in as far as he could go, filling Crowley so absolutely that he could barely stand it. “Oh, you do feel good you know…”

Crowley felt a snarl rise up in his throat.

“The absolute best. No one feels as good as you do.”

And then he was just confused. Was that a proper thing to say to a demon, or not? Surely it was demonic enough that he was the best at tempting an angel into debauchery, but should he feel good? Why did Aziraphale have to complicate everything?

“Oh… yes…”

Aziraphale was rolling now, in and out, smooth and steady and gliding across Crowley’s prostate every damn time, this was how he liked it best.

“This is how you like it best, am I correct?”

Crowley flushed.

“When I keep up the pressure on your happy button.”

A deeper flush.

“I do so love it when I please you like this.”

Crowley was struggling. On the one hand, it did feel fucking amazing (literally) the way that Aziraphale was lighting him up like this, but then, this was never supposed to be about Aziraphale _pleasing_ him, was it? He’d thought it was about him being too tempting for Aziraphale to resist. Shit, he really was the world’s worst demon…

“You’d never let me thank you, would you? For the way you’ve helped me out this week.”

“Ngk…” it was hard to speak around gnashed teeth. “Don’t need to. _Arrangement_.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, it’s just, well, maybe I’d like to thank you, maybe I’d like you to know that I appreciate how _good_ you are to me.”

Crowley shuddered and almost collapsed under Aziraphale’s weight, and the weight of his compliment, but his cock had other ideas, jerking again, the spurt of pre-come it sent forth making him convulse in pleasure.

Aziraphale chuckled again, “You are _good_ ,” he whispered, “the absolute best. You’re all I think about when I’m with humans, all I wish for.”

Crowley shuddered again, the rush of guilty pleasure at Aziraphale’s praise, not quite lost in the cold realisation that Aziraphale _did this with others_.

“Can I make you come with my words?”

Satan, was he _still_ talking?

“Can I take you apart by telling you how hot you are around me? How well you grip me? How I love the feel of your cock in my fist?”

Pushing his teeth into his arm, Crowley desperately tried to silence the embarrassing mewl he’d caught himself making. It wasn’t like Aziraphale had even touched his cock, not in the last two hundred years, at any rate. The damn angel must have a great memory…

“How I love the little noises you make,” Crowley bit down harder, “Oh, you foul fiend, I _worship_ coming together with you.”

And that was that, with a strangled moan, Crowley came, spurting his release from his still-neglected cock into the crushed vegetation beneath him. Pulsing, pulsing, pulsing as he shook and shuddered, feeling Aziraphale gripping his hips tightly and hammering away, reaching his own completion as Crowley finished emptying himself, swaying dangerously but keeping to his knees, taking a shuddering breath and then…

He felt almost sorry for the way he brought Aziraphale down from his post-coital high. Almost. One moment the angel had still been buried inside him, rolling his hips in a decidedly proprietary manner, the next, he’d been flat on his back, eyes wide, over-long tunic rucked up over his waist, a furious demon leaning over him and the smell of sex all around them.

“I am not _good_ ,” Crowley hissed, his hands in Aziraphale’s robes. “I am a demon, angel, the _Serpent of Eden_. I am not yours to wish for, or, or worship,” the word was spat out. “I am not _yours_ , do you understand me?”

Aziraphale might have had his moment of bliss punctured, but he certainly didn’t look at all perturbed at Crowley’s fury, which only stoked it all higher. He simply lay there, his blue eyes fixed on Crowley’s face, his hands open and lax at his sides, his expression, for all the _fucks_ in the world, more _pondering_ than anything else.

Crowley had had enough.

Scrambling to his feet, he snatched his tunic and glasses off the ground, not even stopping to put them on, just crashing into the undergrowth, tearing away from Aziraphale and this stupid, stupid thing they kept getting involved with. Arrangement or not, he was done with this.

Looked like his holiday was well and truly at an end.


	7. Jerusalem, 1099

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for vague, non-explicit, references to Historical atrocities.

Jerusalem, 1099 (919 years until the End of the World)

Crowley heaved the final block of stone back into place then turned and sagged against it, sliding down the rough wall until he hit the ground, too exhausted to even stand.

It had been a tough few months. Directives from Hell were hard to duck and this one had proved impossible, coming as it had, straight from the top.

_“Crowley,” it wasn’t often that Crowley was summoned before the big boss, and he might have been absolutely shitting himself, but he still managed to note that at least the big guy had got his name right, which had to count for something. Didn’t it?_

_“Sir. Lord. You Low-ness,” cringing, he forced himself to shut the fuck up_. _“You sent for me?”_

_“I did. You’ve had a busy last five hundred years, most impressive.”_

_He had. He’d made sure of it, keeping himself really busy inventing reports and looking for things he could take the credit for. Really busy avoiding the angel as well, but that was not a thought to entertain in the presence of the Morning Star. “Thank you.”_

_Satan nodded, his eyes boring holes into Crowley, forcing him to work hard to try and keep his expression empty, trying to keep his thoughts safe. “I have a job for you.”_

_Crowley’s heart sank, but he nodded, gamely, trying to fake a bit of enthusiasm._

_“You heard of Raymond of Toulouse?”_

_Crowley nodded again, his heart sinking even further._

_“The man is an idiot. He’s been rash enough so far, full of the type of righteous fury that makes men fools, but now he seems to have run out of steam.”_

_He stopped, watched Crowley carefully as Crowley tried to calm the thundering of his heart whilst simultaneously clamping his lips together, refusing to offer himself up, voluntarily, for the slaughter._

_“I’d like you to reinvigorate him, Crowley.”_

_Crowley cranked out a smile, “Herbal tea? Vigorous massage, that type of thing?”_

_But Satan’s response was flat. “No. Sacking Jerusalem was more my idea.”_

_Crowley’s insides turned over. Of course it was, of course. Great._

_For one – completely suicidal – moment, he contemplated trying to wriggle out of the task, coming up with some incredibly smart but, ultimately, transparent excuse that he hoped would have seen him being sent back up top to drink wine and appreciate the sunset. Fortunately, he had a single second of clarity, one that, instead of sipping Bordeaux in the twilight, showed him chained upside down in the bowels of Hell, his skin being leisurely stripped from his corporeal form whilst his true essence was slowly devoured by a fleet of essence-devouring-worm-demons._

_Instead, he fixed on his brightest smile, nodded excitedly in the manner of the very best of village idiots, and hoped that there would be chance for some wriggling at a later point._

There hadn’t been. Not up to this point, at least, and since ‘this point’ had seen Jerusalem being held to a siege, invaded and most of its inhabitants slaughtered, he didn’t really see much advantage in trying to get out of it now. Which was a shame.

Most of the inhabitants had been slaughtered. _Most_ of them. The Emir, and his court, had been allowed to flee to Ascalon. A community who had taken refuge in the Towers of David had been allowed to live as long as they surrendered the Tower into Raymond’s hands. A handful of citizens had been given leave to abscond with the Fatimid governor.

And then there were _these_ former residents which had just escaped the city. The old and the young and the infirm, those whom Crowley had spent the last three weeks guiding through the labyrinthine streets, using miracle after miracle after miracle to keep them undiscovered, risking _everything_ to get as many of them as possible out through a hole in the city walls and lost in the wilderness beyond.

Raymond of Toulouse had been well and truly invigorated, and Lucifer had had his sacking. The massacre had been like nothing Crowley had ever seen before and now, he was exhausted in every conceivable manner, slumped in a filthy and blood-drenched alley with not enough left inside to even hide himself from the advancing Crusaders for a moment longer. They would see him, they would know what he had done, and they would discorporate him. And then, once he’d been returned to Hell, Lucifer himself would also know what he had done, and Crowley would be destroyed, slowly and painfully. And yet, he still couldn’t find it in him to even start to care.

He could hear them coming closer, their frustrated yelling at the lack of anyone left alive for them to slay. He could barely hold his own head up. Maybe, hopefully, he’d have passed out by the time they found him, maybe they’d presume him already dead and leave him be. Maybe, but he doubted it.

Then, there were footsteps rounding his corner, and a long sigh which, even to his wearied ears, didn’t sound particularly like a Crusader. A hand dropped onto his head, tilting it backwards and Crowley couldn’t help cringing even as he kept his eyes tightly shut – his snake-features were not going to do him any favours with this crowd – but then there were two slightly trembling fingers pressed into his neck, and another sigh, long and relieved and Crowley was suddenly aware of the angelic frison around him, even as a desperate voice whispered in his ear, “Crowley, my dear, you need to get up, they’ll be here in just a moment.”

How he got up that night he never knew. And how Aziraphale hauled them both out of Jerusalem and all the way into Ramlah without molestation, he would never be able to comprehend. The number of miracles it must have taken just didn’t bear consideration. The night passed in a blur, though, right up until the moment that Crowley was dumped down onto a reasonably soft bed, a blanket drawn over him against the chill of the night and a voice at his ear which whispered, “Sleep now, my dear, you’re safe here.”

He slept.

__ **__

It was still dark when he awoke, of more likely dark again as it certainly felt like he’d slept through more than a day. He instantly sat up on the rough bed, noticing that his bloodied sandals had been removed and the splashes of filth cleaned from both his robe and his bare legs – he must have really been out of it.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked around the tiny room, spotting Aziraphale instantly as he sat at the table in the corner, a pile of parchments in front of him and an oil lamp burning gently on the window edge. Their eyes met, and Crowley realised he’d never seen the angel looking quite so stoic since the days before the flood, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of one thing to say. His eyes dropped to the roughened blanket pooled in his lap and he instantly heard movement, felt the straw mattress dip under an extra weight and then there was a hand in his hair, cupping the back of his head, warm and welcome and unpleasantly invasive all at once.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was as intense as his eyes had been. “You must excuse me, dear boy, but I have to ask this, you know I have to ask this… All those people, all that _killing_ … Was that you?”

The words were like a lance through his chest and whichever way he tugged at it, he knew it wasn’t coming back out again. “I never killed a single one,” he whispered, which was true, “but, Raymond, he was…” he swallowed, felt the hand in the back of his hair tighten and wondered if the angel had it in him to snap his neck. “I was directed. To invigorate him. By Satan.”

The hand didn’t move, his neck remained unsnapped, the silence drew on.

“The alley where I found you,” Aziraphale’s voice was so, so quiet. “The stones in the wall had been removed. Just enough for people to squeeze out.”

Crowley’s useless heart was pounding in his chest.

“I… They…”

He could feel tremors running from the hand on his scalp and along his spine.

“Did you-”

“Don’t.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “Aziraphale, you _can’t_ …”

For a moment they stared at each other and then the angel nodded. “They’d destroy you,” he whispered, and Crowley nodded, held that angelic gaze even though he felt his eyes welling up with unwanted moisture. “Oh,” Aziraphale’s stoic expression crumbled, “You poor boy, come here, come here…”

Crowley let himself be pulled in, his head cradled against a soft chest, the hand in his hair soothing and stroking and all the while, soft endearments ran over him. “My dear… it’s alright now… my dear fellow… my dear boy… you’re alright… it’s over…” And maybe it was, this time at any rate. And maybe it was just nice to melt into Aziraphale and let the angel soak up all that anguish and tension. And maybe he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be laid down onto the mattress and have his clothes stripped from him. Maybe he shouldn’t have closed his eyes against the persistent threat of tears as Aziraphale pushed into him, whispering, “My dear boy,” into his ear, and he certainly shouldn’t have gripped the angel’s hand as he came, tears on his cheeks this time, “Dearest,” ringing through his head, his heart threatening to pound out of his chest.

But he did get up and leave as Aziraphale pretended to sleep at his side and saved them all a great deal of awkwardness.

It was still dark when he slipped out into the empty streets, or more likely dark again as it certainly felt like they’d been fucking for more than a day. He didn’t look back though, just bowed his head and pressed on through the town, heading for Europe and better times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History Note: Raymond of Toulouse was a powerful noble in southern France and one of the leaders of the First Crusade. Deeply religious, he was one of the first to answer the call to the Crusades. Initially marching towards Jerusalem with his army, Raymond became distracted in the region of Tripoli, determined as he was, to win the city for himself. 
> 
> He was eventually persuaded to join the rout of Jerusalem, a brutal (even by the standards of the Crusades) sacking where hardly a single citizen was left alive.
> 
> Afterwards, he returned to his planned conquest of Tripoli and it was here that he died, before the city finally fell to the Crusaders.


	8. Europe, 1169-1348

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all know that Crowley hated the fourteenth century, and now we're about to find out why. The next two chapters are not happy times for either of our heroes, especially not Crowley...

Europe, 1169-1348

(849-670 years until the End of the World)

Crowley _hated_ the fourteenth century.

To be brutally honest, things had been rough ever since the sacking of Jerusalem and the shameful way that Crowley had collapsed in an emotional heap of pathetic demon in front of the angel. He’d kept his distance since then, had spent many an anxious year looking over his shoulder, not only for Aziraphale, but also for the Forces of Hell; it was inconceivable that they hadn’t worked out how discreditable he’d been, how he’d contorted their orders just to ease his queasy morality. He’d failed as an angel, and now he was setting himself up to fail even more spectacularly (and painfully) as a demon. What was wrong with him???

He’d planned to do _better_ (well, worse). He’d planned to _fuck_ his ridiculous principles and concentrate on doing the job that would _not_ see him suspended in a pit of torture for all eternity. He’d planned to be a better (again, worse) demon. He’d planned to forget all about the angel and their (admittedly, now) ill-advised Arrangement, not to even get him started on their _original_ arrangement.

So, Crowley had sloped out of the Arabian sands and back towards Europe, but really, he ought to have known that nothing was _ever_ that easy for him. He was who he was, one of the Damned after all, and that carried something with it, something all of its own. Foment, he presumed. It seemed he didn’t even have to _do_ anything for the shit to start. 

The Sicilian earthquake was first. Crowley had been hiding out in a little fishing village on the coast, spoiling nets and cracking flagons of wine and generally keeping his head down when the earthquake struck. It razed whole towns, caused Mount Etna to spew poisonous gases into the previously-blue skies and produced a tsunami which obliterated any of the coastal communities the original earthquake had left untouched. Tens of thousands died, and, yet again, Crowley found his snake-self swimming listlessly through waters filled with floating corpses.

He slithered back onto dry land in Syria and decided to stay, only to flee back into the water barely a decade later when the tell-tale rumblings of yet another earthquake began. The bodies still reached him, though, as he swam; it was beginning to feel as though they were following him.

Back to Sicily, which wasn’t planned, but it seemed that every snake had a limit to how far they could swim without needing to rest and Crowley had reached that point.

In the years he’d been away, they’d rebuilt, repopulated, and it was easy to forget the horrors he’d witnessed – right up until the point that Mount Etna erupted, all on her own this time, harmonising the deadly gasses with clouds of scalding, suffocating ash, rivers of lava which cut swathes of death through countless communities and pyroclastic flows which did their best to do away with everyone else.

Crowley had no option other than to head back into the water and the rafts of death.

After that, he was done with islands and done with the geologically-unstable south of Europe. He headed north, keeping to the mainland, keeping to himself as much as possible as the societies around him started to discover both superstition and paranoia; even with his eyes hidden, Crowley exuded enough _demon_ to make him ripe for a burning.

It was his own paranoia which kept him within the masses though, hidden, as much as was possible, in plain sight. How could he even pretend that he was doing the job of a proper demon if they found him lurking, all alone, up in a cave in some mountains somewhere? How could he keep abreast of the rumours of the world, keep his ear on the delicate balance between good and evil, if he was hiding himself from it all? How would he know when to run for the stars if he never knew when Hell had finally worked it all out and come for him?

It was a fine tightrope to traverse; one slip either way and he was done for.

He first heard about the Indonesian volcano sometime towards the end of 1257, listening to the stories in a small Swiss inn and marvelling at the fact that, this time, he’d neither caused it by his mere demonic presence, nor found himself swept up in the horror and death of it all. Which was good, as it had seemed to be a large one. A huge one. The greatest one of all time. Crowley counted it as a lucky escape and moved on in his slow, northerly meandering; even he, demon of the world as he was, couldn’t possibly foresee the death and disruption a far-flung volcano could possibly inflict on the entirety of Europe.

It started innocuously enough. A harsh winter, a late spring, a realisation that the cloud cover had been a little (a lot) thicker than usual, that the sun had been less visible. The effect on the crops was inevitable, the livestock too. It hadn’t really bothered Crowley much at first, he didn’t need to eat after all, rarely did unless he was with Aziraphale, and he could certainly forgo alcoholic beverages for the time being. But then it started to occur to him that this wasn’t just a case of ‘the time being’. Food completely ran out, desperate brigands started to steal and loot what little there was, which left entire villages foraging in the hedges and catching vermin to eat. Crowley was developing a creeping, bad feeling about the whole thing and started moving northwards in a more determined manner, desperate to outrun the cloudy-reach of the far-off volcano.

It wasn’t that easy, however. No matter how fast he moved, the famine kept pace with him until people started dying. As was the way in these matters, it was the young and the old first, the infirm, the compromised. But then it was the mothers and the fathers, those who had given up their own food for their children who were now left orphaned and in terror. It was like the Flood all over again, but this time, the deaths were far, far slower, entire communities cleared of life over a few tortuous, miserable months. 

By 1287, Crowley was in Northern Germany, and considering heading for warmer climes as the winter’s cold advanced on him. The famine had almost been forgotten, almost, but the ghost-villages were still there for those who remembered; broken tumble-down ruins which seemed to ring with the cries of the hungry and the bereaved – Crowley could hear them still.

He’d barely turned for the South when the storm hit, the accompanying sea-surge breaching dikes and paltry flood defences and razing the land, wiping out the poor and impoverished once again, and leaving promised misery with the ruin of crops and the loss of livestock. Crowley, yet again, found himself swimming in murderous waters, trying to keep his own head above the pounding waves even as those around him gave up and slid to their deaths. He was just beginning to consider joining them, when the crew of a passing cog hauled him aboard and he spent a cold and tumulus night shivering on its rolling deck, trying to ensure he wasn’t pitched into the water once more.

The grey morning light saw them limping into Amsterdam and the sight of Crowley’s eyes raised the anxiety of a traditionally superstitious crew. He wasn’t at all keen on having another encounter with the icy waves, but the alternative seemed more painful, far messier and would, no doubt, also involve a lot of tedious paperwork and awkward explanations. At least, this time, he was close enough to swim for dry land.

Amsterdam, however, was a revelation and Crowley stayed for a while, making his base there, finding it easy to pass the time with the low level, widespread temptations which were his favoured manner of spreading discord, discovering the best places to drink, the worst people to associate with. It was a routine the likes of which he hadn’t had for a while, not since Rome probably, and it allowed him to unwind a little. It was a steady time, predictable, relatively safe, banal, lonely, but still, he didn’t move on.

Not until the start of the thrice damned Fourteenth century.

1314 and a failed harvest, the obvious warning signs for a Crowley who had, sadly, had plenty of experience in this matter in recent years. The famine hit fast and brutally, before he had managed to extract himself from the impending horror. Again, the innocents were the first to die, and the rumours that street children were vanishing from the slums of the city, only to end up _on the tables_ of the obliviously rich were made even more abhorrent by Crowley’s complete inability to prove them wrong.

Once the peasants had started fighting each other over the bedraggled body of a starved pigeon, Crowley admitted defeat and left Amsterdam, winding his way through the familiarly empty landscapes and the deserted villages, desperately trying to find the place where the famine ended.

By the time he made Paris, it was 1317 and he estimated that millions of the poorest people had starved to death over the course of the last three years. He’d lost count of the number of mass graves he’d seen, the numbers of ruined villages, the number of huge country chateaux where everything seemed to be continuing on just as normal.

He didn’t see the angel, not once, hadn’t seen him since Jerusalem which seemed such a long time ago now. He was pleased though, in a way. How could he possibly stand Aziraphale’s desperate defence of the Almighty and the ridiculous ineffable fucking plan in the face of all this death and desolation? How could he just politely nod and agree and concur that yes, yes, all this death of the most vulnerable of Her people was completely justified, completely understandable and absolutely fine? How could he subscribe to the belief that these people had not been _righteous_ enough to be saved? How could he walk past the churches and hear the desperate wailing of bereaved mothers and believe it _just_? How could he smell the fine food being prepared in the fine houses and believe them more deserving of life?

How could he stop the questions in his mind? He’d not been able to Before when he’d known it would displease Her, he was equally unable to now, despite knowing how it would hurt Aziraphale. Yes, it was best for them both that they keep to their separate lives.

Paris was not Amsterdam and Crowley found himself less at ease in its crowds and filth. There were plenty of available temptations, true, easy ones at that, but still, he found that his heart wasn’t in it. He found himself often deep in thought. Ruminating over the sights he’d seen, unable to clarify in his head whether death had been his companion these last few hundred years through horrific coincidence, or whether it was somehow he himself who was inviting it along for the ride, condemning all these lives to end simply by walking through their existence. Could he possibly be _that_ demonic?

He stayed where he was, taking lodgings by the river, keeping himself to himself, tempting from a distance, drinking as much alcohol as he could get his hands on and desperately trying to _stop_ his circular, crushing thoughts. By the time that Britain and France found themselves on the brink of war (again), Crowley had had enough of Paris anyway, and stowed himself away on one of the last merchant ships to venture across the Channel.

He reached London in 1331, his mood barely improved, the angel still conspicuous by his absence.

Hell, it seemed, was hungry for something _huge_ as well, obviously had plans that Crowley wanted nothing to do with. He was told to up his game a bit, make his temptations bigger, more plentiful, more personal – more deadly.

Crowley had little taste for death, but he knew he was still walking the fine line between Earth and Hell and so he complied as much as he could bring himself to. He found the souls that were already rotten to the core, there were a lot of them in London it seemed, and simply pushed them towards their natural end. He wasn’t one to wield a knife, but he could wield his tongue with almost the same results. It didn’t take much to make a desperate human into a terrified human and Hell certainly didn’t mind if their latest batch of souls had been fished from the Thames before they were delivered Down Below. Crowley told himself that he didn’t mind either, and if he literally ran the length of Watling Street when he thought he saw a familiar flash of blond hair, thought he felt a familiar burst of angelic energy, just as he’d tempted his latest soul into jumping from London Bridge, well, that was simply because he didn’t have the energy to argue about any of it, that was all.

They co-existed in their own separate orbits for fifteen years. Fifteen years of Aziraphale obviously ignoring the steady stream of Londoners who decided to end their days in the filthy water of the Thames, and fifteen years of Crowley ignoring the steadily increasing angelic sheen of disappointment that seemed to hang over the city. Maybe they’d have eventually gravitated back towards each other, maybe they’d have drifted further apart, but events of June 1348 swept away any free will they may have been able to scrape together for themselves, and, once again, Crowley realised that he was simply at the mercy of the fates.

They’d heard of the plague, of course they had, there weren’t many in a so-far-plague-free-England who hadn’t. Crowley also heard, by listening in to gossip on the dockside, that there had been a case reported in Weymouth and, just for a moment, he considered fleeing. He didn’t though. He’d grown to like London as much as anywhere and was comfortable there. His lodgings were decent, the weather wasn’t completely shit and, well, the angel being there had absolutely nothing at all to do with any of it. That was, however, a decision he would come to regret in the following months.

By Autumn, London was well and truly in Pestilence’s feculent fist.

The plague had arrived quickly, and soon marched through every borough and estate in the south of the country, steadily spreading northwards with every single person who tried to outrun it’s grasping fingers. By the time Crowley was regretting his decision to stay, he knew that there was nowhere he could go that would be free of the same misery in which London was crawling. Despite the rest of Europe already having suffered, London was caught out by the speed and efficiency in which death spread from street to street. The plague doctors were overrun and utterly useless, the priests and vicars too. Paranoia and superstition were as common as mass graves and Crowley felt like he was drowning in the misery of it all.

What was he supposed to do? He was a demon after all, he was supposed to be revelling in the death and misery, Pestilence certainly thought so if that’s what all the jaunty waving and thumbs ups gestures were about, but he had just had enough of it all. The smell of death was so far inside him now, he was sure he’d never get it out of his body.

He’d tried to help, subtlety of course, but there was nothing to be done, no way to stop the progression into death once the first signs of the disease were evident. If he couldn’t save the poor buggers who were dying in front of his eyes, he could certainly cut short their suffering and, as much as he’d felt physically sick the first few times he’d done it, it got easier every time. He reassured himself that he was still reaping souls for his Master, even though many of those he helped across the threshold were destined for somewhere very different indeed.

He’d seen the angel as well. Drifting through the death-filled streets much like he himself was, sitting at their sides, holding their hands, promising them a wonderful after-life, but not killing them, no, work as dirty as that could only be done by a demon. Or the Almighty Herself.

Crowley also drank as much alcohol as he could get his hands on, and, when that ran out, he started miracling it into existence instead. It didn’t seem to help though, after a while; even though he never actually felt sober, even though he was drinking _more_ and _stronger_ every single day, the effects lessened with every mouthful and the pain of _existing_ grew.

It was inevitable that he and Aziraphale would run into each other at some point. The twisted streets of the capital were emptying of humans at an alarming rate and the two of them were both out there, both, to a causal observer, seeming to be doing the same tasks. Inevitable. It ended up being on the street outside the Church of St Bartholomew-the-Great, not really somewhere that Crowley would have chosen to be, but, well, fate and all that.

There had been a commotion, a gathering of people looking for salvation after scurrilous rumours had been abound regarding miracles to be had in within the confines of the church. The response of the clergy had been to lock the heavy double doors and so the streets outside soon filled with the sobbing and moaning of desperate people. It was close enough to the lodgings that Crowley had held for years that he could hear it from his bed, and pitiable enough that no amount of alcohol was enough for him to ignore it.

In the dim and wet mid-morning, with his hood pulled low over his head, Crowley did what he could, drifting through the tortured masses, finding those close to the edge and helping them over, sending them on their journey, wherever that may be.

He’d perhaps helped out twenty, or maybe twenty-five, tortured souls that morning when, seemingly out of nowhere, a hand had gripped tightly onto the back of his robes and, with a strength that was undeniably inhuman, he was summarily hauled into an old, abandoned bakery and thrown against the far wall.

Crowley had been sure that the three flagons of alcohol he’d drank so far that morning had had very little effect on him, but he’d fallen so heavily and flailed so much on getting to his feet, that it had him wondering. He still wasn’t sure who he would see when he turned around, it honestly could have been any one of a multitude of supernatural beings who would have been equally unhappy to see him, but it was actually the angel who stood there, hands on hips, glowering at him and Crowley wasn’t even sure how he felt about that. He just miracled himself another flagon of wine and took a huge swig.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” there was an edge to Aziraphale’s voice that Crowley didn’t think he’d heard before, but he didn’t have it in him to try and place it.

“Nope,” he took another, long swallow and was mildly surprised not to find it banished out of his clutches.

“What are you _doing_ out there?” Aziraphale hissed instead and Crowley cocked his head to try and measure exactly how furious he actually was.

“Helping people?” he offered airily, before remembering himself and adding, “To _die_. Helping them to die. Obviously.”

Aziraphale looked as if he’d been slapped, he actually took a step backwards as his mouth widened into a shocked ‘o’, but then it all passed, very quickly, and he just looked furious once more. “You’re _admitting_ it?”

Crowley shrugged and took another mouthful of wine as Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed his way.

“Murderer.”

If Crowley had been any less of a demon (or any less clouded by alcohol) he probably would have spat his mouthful across the room at that rejoinder. As it was, he just raised an eyebrow and reflected that, whilst he probably wouldn’t have used that exact word himself, that was probably just what he was, yes.

They stared at each other, Aziraphale seemingly lost for words, until Crowley gave up. “Is that all you wanted?” he asked and felt that awful stabbing pain in his chest once more at the way that Aziraphale’s expression crumbled, and really, when he’d woken up in a pile of his own vomit that morning, Crowley really could never have imagined that his day could possibly have become any worse.

When the angel didn’t answer, Crowley simply shrugged and headed towards the door, only to find himself crashing into the wall once more as Aziraphale sent a blast of angelic fury straight into his chest.

“What?” he gasped, once he managed to haul enough air into his lungs to allow him to speak. “What the _fuck_?”

“I simply will not,” Aziraphale was glowing in the type of righteous manner that prickled Crowley’s skin, “Allow you to slither out there and kill any more of those poor, _poor_ , people! Do you understand me, demon?”

Crowley stared at him.

“You will cease and desist _immediately_ , leaving the area, _the entire country_ , or I will smite you. Is that clear and comprehensible to you?”

Crowley blinked. Twice. Which was twice more than he really needed but had given him a moment to sort through the fog in his mind and work out what the fuck it was that had got Aziraphale’s knickers in a twist about him. He straightened up and resisted rubbing at his throbbing sternum, instead pinning Aziraphale with the coldest glare he could dredge up. “You are pissed,” he offered slowly, “because I have been out there, _killing_ some of those people?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened further, Crowley doubted he’d ever seen them so shocked. “You have to ask me that?”

Crowley shook his head, “You know they’re dying anyway, right?”

That didn’t seem to help, “You have no right to end their lives.”

That got Crowley’s eyebrows up and they would have been higher than his glasses, had he been wearing them. “You have no right to force them to suffer for longer than they have to. I mean I know the Almighty is really into suffering for Herself, and Her angels and Her _Son_ …”

Aziraphale’s gasp of horror was probably heard in the streets of Liverpool.

“But the humans? The _children_? You think they deserve it all too?”

Aziraphale drew himself up and looked down his nose at where Crowley was still hunched against the wall. “You have no right to end their lives.”

Something both icy cold and violently hot burst into life in Crowley’s chest, giving him the strength to push to his feet and return Aziraphale’s stare. “I did not sstart thiss, angel,” he hissed. “I did not create this dissease. I did not make the humansss ignorant as to how they can cure it or control it. I did not let it sspread acrosss half the World I created, coming hot on the heelss of famine and flood and earthquake and poverty. I did not allow children to be born ssimply sso that they could grow up to watch their parentss die and be forced to beg on the streetss until hunger or the disseasse takess them too.” He took a breath, tried to swallow down some of the anger that was bubbling away inside him. “So, just because I refuse to sit there and watch those poor buggers die, slowly, _agonisingly_ , when I can’t save them, _you_ can’t save them, no one on this Earth can save them… then what? You call me a _murderer_?”

Aziraphale, who had been going steadily paler throughout the entirety of Crowley’s speech drew himself up again, brushing down the material of his gowns and clinging onto his piety like a drowning man and a raft, “You have no right to end their lives,” he repeated, his tone far less sure than before. “No one has that right save for the Almighty Herself.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Especially when you’re just _pretending_ to save them, when you’re just busy collecting souls for _Hell_.”

Crowley went still. Very, very still. And then it occurred to him that there simply wasn’t enough alcohol in the whole of existence that would allow him to deal with this for a moment longer. He looked at Aziraphale and nodded, wondering why it had taken him so long to really see what the angel thought of him. “Right.” What else could he possibly say? He nodded again. “Leave the entire country?”

Aziraphale simply stared at him and Crowley nodded a final time.

“Right,” he repeated, and walked out.


	9. Greece, 1351

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags - mature themes of substance abuse, addiction, self-harm (in a manner of speaking), depression and self-loathing. Crowley has to hit rock bottom before he can start the climb up again. This is the last of the difficult chapters and can be missed completely if anyone would prefer to avoid the subject matter.

Greece, 1351

(667 years until the End of the World)

Crowley had last been in Greece in the third century before Christ. He’d enjoyed it, generally, the weather had been good, hot and dry, and the people had been interesting, forward thinking and creative, easy enough to tempt. He hadn’t stayed long though, and that had had nothing to do with the fact that the angel had been in Egypt. What he had seen whilst he’d been there, that first time (although never actually tried) was what had brought him to Greece this time.

It was easy enough to source. He’d been hoping to not have to stay in Athens and had managed to track down a supply route all the way to Crete; a pale skinned, narrow eyed tradesman, who cited his homeland as Africa and viewed Crowley with the highest level of suspicion. He was still happy to take his money though, without ever seeing his eyes, and even promised him a regular supply which could be delivered to the cliff-top dwelling where Crowley had decided to set up his base.

It took two weeks for the first shipment to arrive, two weeks which seemed far longer and more draining than any two that Crowley could easily remember, even considering that he had left London sixteen weeks previously. Eventually though, Crowley was back within his four walls, staring at the heavy glass bottle in his fist and wondering, daring to hope, that this could be the relief he was looking for. He remembered the words of his supplier as he’d handed it over, _“Just a capful,”_ he’d warned _. “In a whole jugful of water. You need to treat it with respect, you English always think you know better.”_ Crowley wasn’t English, and he hadn’t needed the warning, but he’d nodded anyway, just in the hope of getting him to shut up.

He sat on his poor excuse of a bed and prised the cap from the neck, sniffing cautiously, before damning it all to Hell and taking a long, straight swallow. It tasted vile, but he wasn’t the angel, so he just forced it down and closed his eyes, waiting, hoping and… oh… there it was, thank fuck for that.

The vaguely scrambled feeling started around his eyes, causing his vision to distort a little, to blur around the edges. Then it wasn’t just his vision that was blurred, it was _everything_ ; every memory of every death, every scream of agony he’d ever heard. Every time he’d seen that look of disappointment, of _disgust_ , on the angel’s face, every time he’d used Crowley’s body and sent him on his way. Every proprietary claim that Hell had ever laid on him, every time that he remembered how Heaven had cast him out. Every look of terror on a human’s face when they caught sight of his eyes, every shiver of disgust he’d ever felt in their presence… all of it, still there, but softened and muted and – Crowley could have sobbed with relief – suddenly _bearable_. As his cheeks and his fingers became numb and unresponsive, Crowley sprawled backwards across the rough woollen blankets and just let it all wash over him.

Afterwards, if was impossible to gauge just how much of his existence he spent in that tiny hovel on the crest of a cliff, draining the black liquid from a variety of bottles and vials. As time wound on, he found he needed more of the stuff to keep him pleasantly numb, needed to up his order over and over and over again. He was always willing to pay whatever was demanded from him, which was fortunate considering the exponential increases in price he’d been dealt. He didn’t care about that, nor did he care that his supplier seemed to regard him with more fear and loathing every time they met up. He only cared that his next shipment would be ready for him, that there would be no gap between orders; the odd time that the Mediterranean had become wild and dangerous and the ships could not get into port from Africa, he’d suffered agonies in his stomach, sweating and vomiting, trembling and convulsions, spears of pain through his skull – it had not been pleasant.

He couldn’t avoid noticing, however, that he was needing to drink more, larger quantities, more often, and even then, the numbness was still becoming _less_ , the memory of Aziraphale’s face as he spat, ‘ _Murderer_ ’ at him in a damp London street, the smell of rotten bodies in the water around him as his sensitive snake senses struggled to block them out, the feeling of _Falling_ , his Grace streaming out behind him with the smoke from his wings…it was coming back in a way that he was struggling to process, and he began to worry about his source.

It wasn’t that he felt that his supplier would let him down, he was far from oblivious to the distrust between them, but he knew he’d been a reliable and well-paying customer and, despite obviously aging as humans did, he had no worries about being betrayed. He did, however, worry whether any delivery schedule for the Black Water could keep pace with his ever-increasing demands and resolved to try and intensify its potency, therefor increasing its longevity.

His first experiment had been less than successful. Mixing the Black Water with alcohol, even the strongest he could find, was disappointing. Heating his precious liquid and inhaling the fumes proved similarly useless.

He ended up discovering his solution accidentally. Cutting his finger on a shard of broken glass whilst experimenting ensured that the substance got straight to work, producing a sublime high he hadn’t felt the likes of since the very start. After that, it was easy, a cut to the skin, as deep as he could bear, the Black Water dripped into the wound and hours, days sometimes, of hazy oblivion – just what he needed.

It was around this time, however, that Crowley began to have the slightest nagging fear, just at the back of his mind, that his method of coping with thoughts and memories he’d rather not possess was beginning to get the better of him.

He was starting to find that he couldn’t stand ever being completely free of the cloudiness of the Black Water, even needing it to simply get into the village and collect his next batch. It was affecting his ability to perform miracles as well, which was terrifying in that that was the only way in which he could ensure that he had the necessary funds to feed his desires. Hell were on his back too. At first, he’d been able to balance everything together with a reasonable amount of general mischief making, but that ability had fallen flat as his need for the Black Water increased. Apart from when he collected his orders, Crowley never left his wooden shack, spending his days and nights in a state of semi-conscious stupor on the bed; if any of his supervisors arrived to check up on him now, there would be Hell to pay – literally.

He was worried, which led to him using the Black Water even more, which meant he was even less likely to be able to do anything to get himself out of his mess, which troubled him even further, which increased his usage yet again, which finally killed his miracles dead, which alienated his source, which destroyed his only supply route – which left him slumped on the floor of his wooden shack, without the strength to even get up and run before the forces of Hell arrived to see what the fuck he’d been playing at.

It was the middle of the night when the door finally swung open on him. January. A damp and stormy Cretan night, cold enough that Crowley’s body had long ago lost the ability to shiver. He could move nothing apart from his eyes. His last bottle of Black Water was in his fist and he tipped it, from time to time, into an open wound on his wrist, drawing out the oblivion for as long as he possibly could. He wondered if it would be Hastur who came for him. Kind of hoped it would be Lucifer himself, he would, at least, have the authority to just end his miserable existence there and then; when he considered the other options laid before him, destruction was certainly the most appealing.

It wasn’t Lucifer though, or Beelzebub, or even Hastur standing there in silence, taking it all in over an expressionless face, it was the angel, and _fuck_ , if that wasn’t even worse.

Neither of them spoke for a long time, Crowley couldn’t have done even if he’d wanted to. At least his mind was clear enough to _think_ , though, to imagine. But then, all his imagination would gift him with was what this must look like to Aziraphale…

The shack was small and rundown and _filthy_. As his miracles had depleted, Crowley had lost the ability to keep himself clean, so the stench must have been appalling. The almost empty bottle of Black Water was still held, tightly, in his fist, the knife, with its bloodied tip, laid at his side. His robe was torn and dirty and rucked up around his thighs, his sprawled limbs were pale and marked with cuts, whilst his hair was long and messy, drenched in sour sweat where it framed skull.

He felt his cheeks flush in shame, knew they were even sharper than usual with the complete absence of food he’d consumed since first arriving in Crete and tried to rouse himself, tried to cover his wounds, hide the bottle, something, _anything,_ but really, he knew it was too late – Aziraphale had already seen _everything_.

His ineffective flailing drew the angel’s eyes up to his and the sympathy in them, the crushing disappointment stirred his anger, made him wish he could rear and spit and _bite_ and drive that look away from him, allow him to finish his slide into complete and utter self-destruction in peace. He hadn’t the strength to make a single sound though, and, instead of sending Aziraphale away from him, instead he just had to lie there and close his eyes against the absolute desolation he could hear from the whispered, “Oh, my _dear_ boy…”

They didn’t tarry long. And they didn’t exchange a word. Fresh shame flushed through Crowley’s shattered corporation as Aziraphale pulled a dirty blanket off the bed behind them, then promptly banished it to the ether somewhere and, instead, created a freshly laundered new one. He draped it over Crowley’s sprawled limbs and then just picked him up, folding him gently against his chest in a way that brought back the usual stabbing pain in Crowley’s ribs.

He was finding it harder to stay awake. The change in angle made his head swim, the sudden warmth in his chilled body brought his whole body out in a sickly sweat – but it was the panic he felt at realising his lax fingers had dropped the bottle of Black Water that finally pushed him into unconsciousness.

__ ** __

It was impossible to gauge how long he’d slept, but he awoke in a large white bed, in a large white room, with fine, white muslin drapes that billowed in a soft breeze; he’d have thought he was back in Heaven if it wasn’t for the view of the sky and sea beyond. And there was the angel, sitting on a stool at his side, watching him with that same blank expression on his face. Crowley turned away.

“How do you feel?” Aziraphale’s voice was oddly strained and, again, it awoke the pain in Crowley’s chest.

He didn’t answer, he had no words to even _start_ with that can of worms, but he ran a silent inventory over his body. He’d been washed and changed, the filthy black robe had gone, replaced instead by a loose pair of black shorts. His hair had been washed as well, at first, he thought it had been cut, but no, the wild, red curls had simply been carefully combed through and softly braided, enough to keep them from his face, not tight enough to hurt. The wounds he used to pour the Black Water straight into his veins… he looked down at his arms and his stomach tightened. They were still there, cleaned and dressed, but there, which meant that he hadn’t been here that long, that his body still wasn’t geared up for miracles, that Aziraphale hadn’t felt it was worthwhile healing him… he closed his eyes.

“I tried to heal them,” Aziraphale’s voice was wretched. “And I tried to purge that, that, that _poison_ from your system, but I couldn’t. Everything is too,” he was obviously scrambling for the correct word, “ _soaked_ in it…” he eventually offered.

_Tainted_ , Crowley infilled in his mind. He needed to leave. He needed to be far, far away from Aziraphale and his words and his face and his _everything_. With supreme effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, waiting for a moment whilst the world settled around him and then, slowly, desperately trying to stop the shaking that was running through his limbs, he started to edge himself off the bed, on the side furthest from Aziraphale.

“Crowley?” even that one word sent lances of pain through his chest. “What are you doing?”

_Leaving_ , but the words only spat into life in his head. _Getting away from all this pious, holy, pitying judgement._ He edged further, placing his bare feet on the cool tiles, then stopped, screwing his eyes closed as a stabbing cramp flared into life deep in his belly. He winced, tried to ride it out but it writhed and twisted inside him, a snake inside a snake, pitching him forward, off the bed, falling, always Falling, but this time, instead of the pools of Hell, it was an angel’s arms that caught him. In Crowley’s eyes, that was worse.

After that, the memories were jumbled and disjointed. There was pain, so much pain, stabbing through his belly, his head, his eyes, the wounds on his arms and legs. He couldn’t keep the agonies inside him, bit his own tongue trying to stay quiet, but the torment forced its way out, dragging shameful cries, moans and, most humiliating of all, sobs from his reluctant lips. There was also the shaking, a trembling so violent that he thought he would shudder apart through it all. Chills and sweats, horrific images that chased him through his fitful sleep and into the waking hours, tears, actual tears that ran down his cheeks and dripped from his chin. His skin was awash with goose flesh, rendering it tender to the touch, painful against even the whisper of the sheets. His corporation churned with nausea, forcing him to dry-heave the non-existent contents of his stomach over and over again. His bowels tightened and cramped, spewing foul-smelling gases out of him with such force that it felt as if the organs themselves were being expelled.

Crowley knew what this was, knew it was the Black Water leaving him, his earthly corporation trying to adjust to life without it and he wanted to beg Aziraphale to find his bottle. In his darkest moments, he imagined it, imagined the relief of dragging open the best wound on his wrist and just pouring it all in there, pouring and pouring, imagining the instant respite, the peace, the tranquillity… But he wouldn’t, he _couldn’t_. And he knew that he could make this better for himself, slide into his true form, run and hide in Hell, even take on the demonic form of the serpent, but he didn’t, he _couldn’t_.

Ultimately, he knew he deserved this.

And through it all was Aziraphale, soft words of comfort and nonsense washing out of him, his hands stroking and soothing, warming and cooling, wiping his cheeks and his tears, smoothing his hair back, offering comfort through the pain, and safety through the terror. Crowley knew it would have been a million times worse without him there.

Eventually, it all bled away. Crowley opened his eyes to the softly fluttering white room and there was Aziraphale, still perched on the stool, his blue eyes drawn in worry, seeing everything there was before him, and Crowley no longer had it in him to feel anger.

“How are you feeling now?” the words were soft, gentle, as was the hand that reached out and brushed the hair back from Crowley’s eyes.

“Better,” his voice was rough, his throat sore, but it was true. Better than he had done since Jerusalem. It was as if the evil had been drawn out of him – for a while at least.

“You look better,” still Aziraphale’s hand kept up its stroking. “It’s a relief to see the colour of your eyes, they’ve been black for so long.”

Crowley’s stomach twisted; when had any being _ever_ expressed anything other than revulsion at seeing his anomalous yellow eyes?

The moment held, Aziraphale, quiet and uncommonly difficult to pin down, just watched him, right up until the familiarity of it all was too much for Crowley. He pushed into a sitting position, dislodging Aziraphale’s hand, swaying slightly as the world spun a little on him and then tugging his hair up, off his nape, suddenly fed up of its length and heat. “Do you have somewhere I can wash?” he kept his eyes on the white sheets.

There was a pause, long enough to make Crowley think that Aziraphale was going to ignore him and then, “Yes. I have a room with a soaking tub, and some soap and some linens for drying.” There was another awkward pause and then, “Would you like me to fill it for you?”

Crowley flushed. Ah, yes, of course Aziraphale would have noticed that he was running dry, so to speak. But, he did feel better, much better, so maybe…? He lifted his hand and flicked his fingers, watching with satisfaction the spark that promptly flared into life. “It’s alright,” the relief was trying to tug a smile onto his sharp features, “I can do it myself.”

Warm water baths had been a luxury, as far as Crowley was concerned, since the start of the Roman Empire. The rest of Europe were being sadly slow in following the trend, but he knew he could rely on Aziraphale, and the Greeks, to be able to indulge him. It was nice to be able to lie back and relax in the warmth after _everything_. To feel safe, as well, not that Crowley felt entirely comfortable in admitting it, even to himself, but he knew that he was safe, right at this moment, with Aziraphale in the other part of the house, reading, probably, and ever so subtly watching Crowley’s back. Just like he had been doing ever since he’d found him in that hovel in Crete.

Eventually, he unfolded himself from the water’s embrace, dried himself on the provided linens, willed his hair into a more modern style, close cropped and tightly curled, then called another robe, shorter and finer than before, into existence before wandering out to join Aziraphale as he sat on a small terrace looking out at the sea and the sky beyond.

“So, still Greece then,” Crowley ventured as he pulled his chair into the sun, further away from Aziraphale’s shaded reading spot and pretended he couldn’t see the angel checking out his hair.

There was the slightest pause and then, “Yes, my dear, Achnis. We’ve not gone far.”

Far enough though. Aziraphale must have resorted to a number of miracles to move them both over the water, and, given the state that Crowley had been in, it had been a risky, _risky_ manoeuvre. He felt a long sigh pull at him, “I should really get going,” his voice was still rough; he’d inconvenienced the angel enough as it was.

Another pause, Crowley really wished he knew what it was that Aziraphale wasn’t saying. “As you wish. But, are you sure you need to go so soon? There’s a taverna in the harbour that serves warm cheese with a squeeze of lemon juice which is simply to die for. Maybe you’d like to try some before you head off?”

_Maybe you’d like to eat something? Before you waste away to nothing?_ Crowley could hear the subtext, even though it was, as they both knew, completely erroneous. “Sure,” he pushed out a smile. “I’ll treat you.” It was the closest he would get to offering up his thanks, and Aziraphale seemed to know it.

The cheese was reasonably pleasant, as was the pale wine they drank at a little table right at the water’s edge. Crowley only had a mouthful or two before his stomach was twisting in surprise and he wordlessly pushed his plate in Aziraphale’s direction. The angel ate both portions of cheese, plus a healthy serving of lamb stew, plus a pastry drenched in honey and nuts and Crowley felt his cheeks flush as he wondered how much food he’d miss out on whilst he’d been playing nursemaid to Crowley’s withdrawal.

The wine had loosened his tongue, however, and whilst he would never, ever be able to ask _that_ question, he found that he could query, “How did you find me?”

For a moment, Aziraphale didn’t answer, but Crowley watched him carefully, saw the hint of smile dance across his face in the candle-light, chased away by something dark enough to make them both shiver and then, “I just reached out for you, my dear,” Aziraphale’s voice could barely be heard over the lapping waves. “I’d been looking for you since London. I could _feel_ that you,” he stumbled again, “were in a spot of bother.”

Understatement of the millennia, right there, but yes, Crowley had felt that too, at times, that sense of Aziraphale somewhere else in the world. Interesting that it stretched both ways.

He nodded, silence fell once more and then Aziraphale wrapped his gentle fingers around the neck of the bottle and met Crowley’s eyes, “Shall we take this up to the house, my dear?”

Crowley nodded.

They fell straight to the bed, Crowley shifting to lie on his belly as was their routine. Aziraphale, however, in a departure from the norm came to lay alongside him, on his side, pressing his erection into Crowley’s hip but not stripping him, or mounting him, or even starting to work him open, just _caressing_ him, using one hand to prop up his chin, the other to sweep and stroke and skim, over and over, until Crowley’s chest was so tight he could barely breathe.

“You are beautiful.”

Crowley closed his eyes, crushed them shut. How could he deal with comments like that?

“You’ve shortened your hair,” delicate fingers scratched through his nape in a way that made his already-hard cock swell and leak. “It looks good on you.”

“I thought you preferred it long,” the words slid out of his mouth without permission and Aziraphale chuckled.

“It makes a pleasant change.”

They slid into silence again as Aziraphale finally vanished all of their clothing, pressing his erection up against the prickly hairs of Crowley’s thigh, tipping slightly, drawing pleasure as his hand, now warm and slick with fragranced oil, went back to sweeping large circles across the broad span of his back.

“I’ve worried about you, my dear,” he whispered into the dark and Crowley shifted to lie with his head on his folded arms, blinking at Aziraphale, words deserting him. Aziraphale smiled, though. “I’m glad to catch up with you for a while. You’ve not had an easy few centuries.”

Wondering how he _knew_ , Crowley turned away, staring at the wall instead.

“But things are better now, yes? You’re feeling better?”

Aziraphale shifted then, sitting astride Crowley’s thighs but still not to penetrate him, simply continuing to caress him, both hands this time, warm and firm and pressing into his muscles, making him just about melt into the bed, even through his frown. He sighed, couldn’t help the justification of, “None of that was deliberate, you know, angel.” Which wasn’t _completely_ true, but then it also hadn’t been _completely_ what Aziraphale had so obviously thought it was.

“I know, my dear,” but he didn’t, Crowley could tell that.

Finally, Aziraphale’s hands slid down to the round of Crowley’s arse, kneading and massaging, parting his cheeks and rubbing his thumbs against the fluttering opening, blowing gently and laughing softly as Crowley shuddered.

Crowley took a breath, and Aziraphale slid a finger inside.

After that, things moved quickly, and Crowley was keening low and long, knees folded underneath him, thighs spread, arms stretched out in front as Aziraphale slid inside him.

“Exquisite,” the angel moaned, as he bottomed out. “You’re simply wondrous, my dear.”

Crowley could only gasp.

It was slower than usual, gentler, Aziraphale’s hand, when it found Crowley’s cock was firm but _reverent_ , and Crowley found unaccountable tears spring to his eyes.

“Oh _dearest…_ ” Aziraphale was speeding up, his hips snapping, his grip firm. “Crowley, my Crowley…”

Crowley pressed his forehead to his arms and concentrated on breathing as Aziraphale started nailing his prostate on every push in.

“Oh, _oh_!”

Tumbling over his own edge at the sound of Aziraphale’s ecstatic release, Crowley came back to himself laid in his own mess, Aziraphale pressed against his back, angelic fingers splayed across his belly, unaccountably stroking still. _Tender_ … Crowley mused, before telling his mind to _shut the fuck right up_ and shuffled until Aziraphale rolled off him, allowing him to slide off the bed and stand with his back to the angel.

“I should be going,” he offered quietly, cleaning himself up and retrieving his clothing with the same miracle.

Aziraphale didn’t reply.

“I’ll see you around.”

Still nothing and, since Crowley could not bear to turn around and see Aziraphale watching him with those guileless blue eyes, he simply headed for the door, the feel of Aziraphale’s hand on his stomach, the whispered lies of _my Crowley_ , haunting him as he stepped out into the silent night.


	10. Florence, 1505

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll :)

Florence, 1505 

(513 years until the End of the World)

It was a beautiful day, as it often was in Florence in May, and Crowley found that he was in a perfectly acceptable mood because of it. It was in the region of two decades since he’d last walked these streets although, as was often the case with immortality, it felt like only yesterday. His impeccable memory found the studio with ease and, suddenly nervous, he paused, listening and tapping before leaning around the open door into the cool interior and calling, “Leo? Are you there?”

For a moment, there was silence, then a reply, irritated and welcoming all at once sounded from up a rickety flight of wooden steps, “ _Crowley_? Crowley is that you?” A gnarled and bearded face appeared over the gallery banisters, a smile clearly beaming through the wild, grey froth of hair. “It is you! You old snake…” Crowley actually laughed at that, “Where have you been?”

Ten minutes saw them relocated to the walled garden beyond the studio, sitting side by side on a stone bench, shaded from the sun by a wide variety of climbing plants and sipping wine from rough earthenware cups. Their legs stretched out side by side, Crowley’s in his extremely tight and fashionable hose, Leonardo’s hidden under his voluminous _cioppa_.

“Still dressing like a peacock,” Leonardo muttered, eyes skimming the iridescent sheen to Crowley’s black hose, but Crowley only laughed again.

“If you still had it, you’d be flaunting it too, Leo. Don’t even try to pretend otherwise.”

Leonardo shook his head. “Twenty years, my old friend, since we last sat here and drank wine. And yet you don’t look a single day older.”

Crowley took a careful sip of his drink.

“And I’m _still_ the only one who ever notices that?”

A shrug was his first answer to that, followed by Crowley removing his shades to look him over properly in the shade of the patio. “You’re the only one I _allow_ to notice that,” he corrected. “That’s different. And twenty years? It’s no wonder you’ve aged so much.”

Tutting, Leonardo snatched the glasses out of Crowley’s fingers and examined them carefully. “I see your manners have improved little, _devil_.”

Crowley permitted one, single eyebrow to rise at that and then leaned back against the warmth of the wall, closing his eyes and allowing Leonardo his fun with the highest quality Swiss eye-wear that money could buy.

“Switzerland?”

Crowley nodded.

“They look expensive,” he handed them back. “Where else have you been?”

Without opening his eyes, Crowley thought how best to answer. “Hispaniola,” that, at least was true. “The Kingdoms of Borgdu. The Ming Dynasty.”

“Well travelled,” Leonardo conceded. “Rome, perhaps? The Vatican City, maybe?”

The smallest of smiles crept across Crowley’s face at that.

“I thought as much. That business with Pope Alexander had your finger marks all over it.”

“What would you have me do?” Crowley sat up, ready with his defence. “The man was a hypocrite. Preaching celibacy and the sanctity of marriage and then screwing around with a married woman! Is that the kind of man you’d like at the head of _your_ church?”

“And what did your superiors think of that?” the question was asked quietly.

“What do you think? The sexual exposure and humiliation of the bloody _Pope_? They were over the moon.”

“And your angel?”

Crowley’s face turned sour, “Stop that. I’ve told you about that before.”

Leonardo laughed. “He’s in town, you know. Has been for a few months.” It seemed that it was impossible for Crowley to answer with the large mouthful of wine he currently had, and so Leonardo pushed his luck. “But I’m guessing you knew that, or else why would you be here now? Visiting the _old friend_ you ran out on twenty years ago without even a note left at the side of the bed.”

Staring into his wine, Crowley’s cheeks flushed and, beside him, Leonardo sighed, patting his thigh as he pushed, tiredly to his feet.

“Don’t think on it,” he offered benignly, “You never hid what I was getting myself into. Let me get us some more wine and then I shall show you the lady I have been working on whilst you have been scheming to bring down corrupt Popes.” 

Crowley didn’t answer, but he did look up and watch as Leonardo shuffled back into his studio.

__ ** __

“That’s much better!”

They’d relocated to bar where Leonardo was obviously both well-known and well-liked and were still drinking, although the pace of the human was much slower than that of the demon.

Crowley spun the diagram around so that he could consider it properly. “You know, Leo, I think that this one would actually work.”

Leonardo roared with laughter, “You and your back-handed compliments! I’m not sure my self-esteem could stand seeing you more than once every twenty years!”

“Well,” Crowley sat back and leafed through the papers strewn all over the table. “Look at it! I told you when I first saw it, it would just never work!”

Leaning forward, Leonardo frowned. “I’m not so sure. The downwards force generated by wings of that size-”

“Wouldn’t be enough to lift a small and confused _rabbit_ off the ground, never mind a grown man.”

Unconvinced, Leonardo tapped his calculations. “But, a man who was six palmi tall would-”

“Need wings shaped like that so be over twelve palmi long! Each of them! And then the effort of flapping them would probably make him pass out before he got _anywhere_. Believe me, the aerial screw is a _much_ better idea.”

Leonardo leaned in even closer, hovering over Crowley’s elbow to study the diagram once more. “I still believe you are wrong, and I would like to know where you think you get all your knowledge from?”

“All my knowledge from?” Crowley ducked his head to look right into Leonardo’s eyes. “You’re asking me that, when I am a literal man-shaped-being _with wings_?” For just a moment, for the briefest of moments, Crowley allowed his wings to shimmer into the corporeal plane, beating just once, as slowly and majestically as he could make them, watching the way that Leonardo’s jaw dropped at the sight and laughing out loud at the wonder of it all right up until-

“Crowley!”

He actually cringed, vanishing his wings in a moment, and spinning on his stool to, inevitably, find Aziraphale standing there, having a hard time knowing whether to look more scandalised at the sight of _demon wings_ in a bar in Florence, or the way that Crowley and Leonardo were leaning into each other at the table. There was an awkward moment of silence and then Crowley and Leonardo made the mistake of looking at each other and they both burst out laughing, flooding Aziraphale’s cheeks with colour as he turned around and stomped back out into the street.

__ ** __

It took him two and a half hours to track Aziraphale down, mainly due to the fact that he felt that the angel didn’t want to be tracked down – not by him at any rate. But Crowley was nothing if not tenacious and so, eventually, he arrived at the angel’s door, flagon of wine sloshing as his side, apologetic grin firmly in place – not that he actually knew what it was that he’d done wrong.

He knocked for ten minutes, slowly allowing the thumping of his fist to increase in volume until, with a dark sliver of satisfaction, curtains at a neighbouring house stirred and angry eyes flashed out at him in the night. Crowley offered them a jaunty little wave and was about to shout something obnoxious in their direction, when the door in front of him jerked open and a hand in his tunic hauled him in over the threshold. Crowley stumbled slightly with the force of entry, which did take the narrowest edge off his assumed insouciance, but he righted himself soon enough, and he’d made sure that none of the wine had spilled, so that was okay.

“Angel,” Aziraphale had his arms folded and his lips pursed, which was never a good sign, but he hadn’t smote him _yet_ , so Crowley could hope. He lifted the wine in invitation, “Drink?”

If anything, Aziraphale’s lips seemed to press even further in on himself and his eyes drifted to the door before they landed, in a decidedly haughty manner, Crowley’s way. “We are supposed to be keeping a low profile, Crowley,” he spat. “I don’t see why you always have to make such a spectacle of yourself!”

For a moment, Aziraphale’s gaze seemed to flick to Crowley’s long legs in black lustred hose, and he couldn’t stop the painful twist in his chest: he’d thought he’d looked good. He determinedly shook it off, “Oh, come on,” he drawled, “You know you love it. Now are you joining me in this wine, or shall I sit outside your door and drink it myself?”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Aziraphale hissed, bustling over to the little table and chair set by the window and clearing away some of the books stacked there.

__ ** __

It didn’t take him long to warm up; as Crowley had known would be the case. Soon, he was enthusing, long and detailed, about the wonderful advances that were now possible with the invention of the printing press, how incredible works of beauty and knowledge could be shared far wider amongst the humans, how so many copies could now be produced that that knowledge would never have to be lost. He wondered, trying to keep his angelic smile to a minimum, if it wasn’t, in fact, _his_ divine intervention that had precipitated its invention? Perhaps it had been his longing for a better way to share all the written delights of the world that had provided the spark that led to innovation?

Crowley sipped and nodded and let him have that one, knowing all along that it had been _far more_ than his demonic intervention that had pushed humans down the track towards printed progress. He’d just about drawn the damned sketches himself in the end as Mainz had been rather immune to some of his subtler hints and suggestions. Like Aziraphale, though, Crowley had been pleased with the final result; what better way to spread unrest than with mass printing? He would never say that to Aziraphale, though. Well, not on this night at any rate.

“So, what have you been doing in Florence, then?” he asked, casually, diving into a break in the conversation as Aziraphale packed some of his new treasures away after having shown them to Crowley. He glanced into the almost-empty jug and filled it with a thought before topping up both of their cups. “Leo said you’d been here a few months.”

Aziraphale stilled, the final book poised above the chest he was packing them into and Crowley’s forehead creased in thought. The moment didn’t last, though, and with a moment, Aziraphale was heading back his way, dusting his own hands down the front of his loose tunic, face studiously casual and unconcerned. “Did he, now? Well, I had no idea he was keeping such close tabs on me. I wonder why that is?”

Crowley’s nose wrinkled. “He’s not _keeping tabs_ on you, angel,” he shook his head. “He’s just well-connected, that’s all, and well-liked. Florence isn’t that big a place – of course he’d know that you’re here.”

“There are almost one hundred thousand humans living in Florence, Crowley! Why would he notice my arrival? Why would he even _care_? He’s supposedly so busy with his _art_ and his _science_ and his _inventions_ … does he also monitor all of the comings and goings to the city as well? Is he that clever? That _well-connected_? That _well-liked_?”

It had been obvious since those very first days in Eden that Aziraphale could be a bit of a bastard when he wanted to be – it was what had drawn Crowley to him in the first place – but still, even Crowley, who had spent so many of the last five and half thousand years with him, had never seen him quite like _this_. This bitter, this spiteful. “Why don’t you like him?” the question was soft and genuine. Aziraphale liked everyone, well, everyone good that was, and Leonardo _was_ good, he was kind and loyal and thoughtful and generous. Generous enough to expend time and affection on Crowley – even after he’d worked out, precisely, _what_ he was. And maybe that was it, he mused, that cold, tightness in his chest returning, maybe that ability to be kind to the Damned was what Aziraphale didn’t like about him.

“I don’t even know him,” Aziraphale replied sniffly, “How can you possibly say I don’t like him?”

The tightness wouldn’t leave, and Crowley didn’t like it. “Well maybe because you’re being so damn bitchy about him,” he spat back. “And maybe because he’s my _friend_ , so perhaps you should just respect that and not be like _this_.”

“Your _friend_?” Aziraphale’s blue eyes were wide, portals to the skies, “Crowley – you are a _demon_ ; demons do not have humans as _friends_.”

With that, the creeping cold in his chest morphed into sharp pain and Crowley had to swallow before he could persuade his stupid human body to respond, biting back the, _‘What about angels then? Can demons have_ angels _as friends?’_ he wanted to spit out and instead making do with, “Of course not. Of course they can’t. Who’d want to consort with Her rejects after all?”

There was a pause, thick and stagnant, within which Aziraphale refused to look at Crowley, and the pain in Crowley’s chest sharpened. When Aziraphale bustled over to the table and started fussing with their cups, Crowley had had enough, getting up from his seat, turning towards the door, his long legs stalking him close in moments, his hand reaching out and grabbing the handle and-

“Crowley…”

He stopped. Of course he stopped. He stopped and stared at the back of the door, studying the fine grain of the wood it was hewn from and wondering if Hastur would have stopped at Aziraphale’s command? Ligur? Dagon? But he knew his answer, he knew that no other demon would have given Aziraphale one moment of their time, _not ever_ , and certainly not the many lifetimes that Crowley had already given him. Crowley was the most pathetic specimen of demon there was.

He waited.

“Crowley?”

_Aziraphale_ waited.

Now that Crowley had stopped, he knew that it was only a matter of time until he turned back and gave him the eye contact that the angel wanted. He stood a moment longer, tried to convince himself that he _wouldn’t_ look around, that he _would_ leave. He knew he was kidding himself. He turned around, watched the edges of a smile flutter around Aziraphale’s mouth, pleased at Crowley’s obedience, then watched him come closer, closer, until they were almost toe to toe. The smile had gone, now Aziraphale seemed to be studying him, cataloguing him, and maybe he wasn’t that keen at what he saw as his expression clouded just the slightest bit, tiny frown lines marring his perfect forehead. _Obviously,_ Crowley thought, _demon._

A beat of silence, another, and Crowley was starting to feel edgy once more, the need to flee was building and then, “ _Crowley…_ ” Different. Softer. He resisted the temptation to close his eyes in defeat: he knew this tone. There would be no more words. There would be a hand on his hip, probably his thigh, possibly even straight on his dick. Wherever. But it would stroke and caress and _fondle_ until Crowley was hard enough for Aziraphale’s eyes to pick up through his tight hose. Then the angel would smile a most un-angelic smile. Then he would lead Crowley back to his bed chamber. Then he would manoeuvre him onto his belly on the bed. Then he would strip him. Then he would fuck him. Then he would make it clear that he wanted Crowley to leave. And Crowley would leave, Crowley would go along with _all of that_ , because, if Crowley had been a truly awful angel, bad enough to be thrown to the pits, then now, incredibly, he was an even worse demon. Utterly pitiful.

He waited. Watched the twitching of Aziraphale’s fingers. Knew he was wanting to touch. But – he didn’t.

“Crowley,” it was barely a whisper, “my dear.”

Crowley fell absolutely still.

“You don’t need to go.” Aziraphale was looking at him from under his lashes but he wasn’t trying to be coy, Crowley could see that. He was awkward. Out of his comfort zone. Well, that made two of them. “You can stay for a while, if you want.”

_For a while._

“I thought we could…” Aziraphale gestured clumsily towards the bed chamber. “We haven’t done. Not for a while,” he swallowed. “I’ve missed it.”

_Ah, yes. Of course._

“So,” Crowley watched him swallow again. “What do you think, dear boy? Would you like to? You can if you want. If you want…”

He reached out a hand, but he didn’t touch, and his eyes were on Crowley’s face, not his genitals. With a lurch, Crowley realised that he was waiting for him to take his hand, _to agree_. They’d never done this before, Crowley’s consent and compliance had always been assumed – after all, what kind of demon would ever say no to getting off?

A thrill of novel power ran through Crowley’s frame. He could walk away. He could. He could say no. He had that choice. So, what did he _want_ to do?

But, there was no debate, not ever, and his heart sank with the realisation that _that_ was what made this moment of power so empty: he was always going to say yes, of course he was. His own cheeks flushed in a mixture of shame and desire, Crowley reached out, wrapped his fingers around Aziraphale’s and followed as he was led towards the angel’s bed.


	11. Paris and London, 1793 and 1802

Paris and London, 1793 and 1802

(225 years until the End of the World)

Crowley was leaning back against the damp bricks of what had been, up until very recently, the home of King Louis and Marie Antoinette. In his view, it had been a very particular strain of evil that had seen them guillotined right outside their former home, but really, was he genuinely surprised? The humans had always had the capacity to perform acts of the utmost cruelty on each other, but now they were devising ever more ingenious methods of spreading it far and wide with the minimum of effort. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume that they were being led, somehow, by something demonic, or, quite frankly, angelic. But they weren’t, after all these millennia of living amongst them, he knew that, knew that this was just them, being demonic, with as much fervour as they could still be angelic.

It was working well for him, too. After Jerusalem (and after Greece, but he tried not to think about that any more) he’d decided that he needed a way to ensure that he wasn’t directed to do any of the killing and traumatising himself anymore, but a way that also kept Hell off his back and soothed their various ruffled appendages after all the years he’d spent doing very little other than wallowing. His reports back to Hell had always been a little (a lot) on the creative side _anyway_ , so it was hardly a huge leap to make them one hundred percent works of fiction. Crowley was intelligent, and he was imaginative, traits shared with none of his demon brethren, and so no one even suspected that the reports he was submitting were false. He made sure that they were based in solid fact and was careful never to over-egg-the-pudding, and that way, he’d managed to carve out an existence which was less seeped in misery than the one he’d had before. A compromise, he supposed, in where he wanted to be, and where he had to be.

As time had passed, however, and his reputation in Hell had strengthened, he’d found that even the reports themselves were not always needed. A couple of times, now, he’d received commendations, honest-to-Satan _commendations_ for pieces of work which were absolutely nothing to do with him at all. Well, none of the things that he’d claimed responsibility for had _ever_ been anything to do with him, but at least he’d been there then, watching, experiencing, reporting back first-hand, these bonus jobs had often been for events he’d never even heard of at the time. Even a worldly-wise demon with his ear to the ground could miss some things.

The Spanish Inquisition had been one such event, this current murderous swell of hatred in France, another. He’d actually been in Morocco at the time, enjoying the dry heat and a spell of sunning himself when a lesser demon had risen from the sand directly in front of him, wide mouth grinning stupidly, scroll of commendation in its fist. Crowley had set off for Paris immediately – it wouldn’t have done to be clueless to the details should Beelzebub want to hear a first-hand account of the way that the blood ran through the cobbled streets – and found exactly what he’d thought he would, baying crowds, innocent victims, incredible cruelty, mass hysteria and, yes, blood running though the cobbles. Another day and he’d be done; he could already feel the despair of it all seeping into his bones. 

He stood and watched, impassively, as the blade descended yet again, and the crowd roared yet again. He understood the frustrations of these people, he’d always seen the very, very difficult lives the poorest of any society had to live, but still, he found it hard to process this as a suitable solution.

The efficiency of it all was giving him ideas, however, on his own level of course, none of this murder and mayhem was his idea of fun, but the efficiency… yes, that was something to think about. There would be ways, he knew, of spreading minor misfortune and misery, of pushing hundreds, thousands even, of souls just that closer to _down there_ with one single act and without a drop of blood being spilt. It was a lesson for him at any rate, something to think about, but maybe somewhere with less blood, maybe… London, he hadn’t seen the angel in quite a while after all.

Since Greece, since _Florence_ , things had been different between them. It was hard for Crowley to work out exactly why things had changed, his ability, and, quite frankly his _desire_ , to process the finer emotions was limited, but, yeah – things had definitely changed, become easier. Smoother. More relaxed maybe. Like, after five thousand years of being around each other, Aziraphale had decided that maybe Crowley wasn’t quite as heinous as he’d first thought, wasn’t quite as _perilous_. Which was, when you considered they’d been shagging for most of those five thousand years, not before time. But Crowley wasn’t bothered, not really; when your entire existence was Damned, you took whatever else you could get.

And at least the angel was well away from this mess. At least he’d be tucked up somewhere safe and warm in his beloved London, maybe even in the bookshop he’d talked about last time they’d met up. At least Crowley didn’t have to worry about him getting-

He stopped, his stomach rolling, his heart suddenly thundering away in his chest, his eyes tracking autonomously to a building across the Place from him, all of his other-worldly senses suddenly screaming out in alarm at him. He pushed off from the wall and prepared a little bit of demonic power, he felt he was going to need it…

__ ** __

“But I _do_ like Soho, my dear,” Crowley watched while Aziraphale pushed the last scrap of crêpe around his plate with his fork, “The people are so friendly, and there’s such a variety of personalities! It’s delightful. Not too far from the rest of London either, easy to walk anywhere I’d need to,” he finally decided that he’d mopped up every last trace of the orange juice that had been soaking into his crêpes and popped the whole forkful into his mouth in one go.

Crowley watched him, safely hidden behind his glasses, and tried to ignore the squirming warmth he could feel in his stomach.

“Hmmm, well, that was simply _delectable_. Worth the trip over all on its own,” he beamed at Crowley, oblivious to the way the demon’s eyebrows raised over the rim of his glasses and the sharp pain that awoke in his chest. Aziraphale’s eyes drifted to Crowley’s plate and the almost-untouched crêpes that sat there. “Are you-” the plate was pushed his way before he’d even managed to formulate his question properly and the beamed ratchetted up another six levels. “Oh, thank you, dear boy!”

Crowley went back to watching as Aziraphale went back to eating. He wasn’t a huge one for eating himself, never had been and it was obvious that things weren’t changing after all this time, but he doubted he’d have been able to eat now anyway, the way his stomach was still rolling like the deck of a fishing boat in a tempest. His infuriation with Aziraphale was generally pointless, the angel didn’t see, would never see, the darkness that existed all around him. He would never view the world with the right amount of mistrust and suspicion. And the fear he held for the messengers of heaven… well, that simply made Crowley’s blood boil. What had he been thinking? Allowing a messy, humiliating, painful and no doubt terrifying discorporation just to keep himself off Gabriel’s ‘frivolous miracles’ scope? Gabriel was an idiot, always had been, always would be.

But really, Crowley knew that it wasn’t Gabriel that was the problem here, not really; it wasn’t Gabriel that Aziraphale was frightened of, it was Falling, although he doubted that the angel had recognised that fact himself just yet. Crowley could understand that fear, approved of it even, he also _did not_ want Aziraphale to Fall, but really, if consorting with the Damned, being _intimate_ with the Damned wasn’t going to do it, then, what the Hell was? If Aziraphale hadn’t Fallen for fucking a demon, was he really going to Fall for saving his own neck from the guillotine? None of it made sense.

Aziraphale would not see it that way though. He was so kowtowed to Heaven, so subservient and, frankly, terrified, that he wouldn’t look after himself properly. Didn’t look after himself properly. Was always risking discorporation in one form or another. Any why, exactly, did that bother Crowley so much? Well, there was the Arrangement to consider, of course, and the recognition that Crowley’s life would be made more difficult without Aziraphale to lend a hand, stay out of his way and tip him off when necessary. Who knew how long it would take Heaven to reissue Aziraphale with a corporeal form and send him back down again? Who knew what kind of over-zealous idiot they might send down in his place in the mean-time? Crowley was not eager for a smiting.

And then, as much as Crowley hated to admit it, there was also _the arrangement_. It had become… _soothing_ these last three centuries to have Aziraphale there to fall back on. The sex had become less complicated and more mutually enjoyable. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it from day one of course, but still, it had become _better_. He supposed it was bound to happen as their familiarity grew with the years. Sometimes (often), Crowley found that he was seeking Aziraphale out simply _for_ that contact, the intimacy of it, the way that he could relax more than in any other moment of his life and simply _be_. And it wasn’t just the sex either, in the last few hundred years he’d had sex with more humans than he could possibly hope to remember, and none of it ever felt like being with Aziraphale.

“Goodness, Crowley, did you _taste_ these redcurrants?”

Crowley was brought back to the moment by the appearance of a fork, right under his nose, holding a tiny roll of crêpe, two plump redcurrants smothered in their own glossy sauce, and a dusting of powdered sugar which was almost as enticing as the expectant smile on the angel’s face as Crowley blinked at him.

“They are divine!” the fork edged closer to his mouth and Aziraphale giggled, “Well, not _actually_ divine, my dear, you needn’t worry about that, but certainly delicious.”

Crowley felt unwell, his heart was thumping in his chest, his stomach was rolling and that pain behind his ribs was back again. He opened his mouth though, let Aziraphale post the taster right onto his tongue and chewed automatically, tasting nothing, as he stared into that shining face he knew better than any other in all creation. He swallowed, forced out a nod, and, happy, Aziraphale went back to polishing off the rest of his (Crowley’s) crêpes.

Across the table from him, Crowley just sat and stared and wondered if there was some kind of malfunction with his corporation.

__ ** __

“You were very lucky to get such a delightful abode whilst you were here, dear boy.”

Aziraphale was standing at the French windows, looking out over the sprawl of Paris beyond the wrought iron balcony, as naked as Adam and Eve had been before Crowley got busy with that tree. Crowley was, as seemed to be his custom these days, watching him, sprawled on his back in the rumpled sheets, his body lax and heavy from the sex, his mind whirling in confusion. They didn’t usually do _this_.

“How long have you been in town?” he turned then, totally unashamed of his nakedness, and returned to sit on the side of the bed, still making no movement to get his clothing.

Crowley forced his brain into gear. “Not long. It’ll be a week, tomorrow. I just needed enough of an idea of what was going on to make sure that I’d be able to answer anything they asked of me.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale reached out and idly brushed through the hairs on Crowley’s chest, his mind obviously elsewhere whilst Crowley felt his own pulse rocket. “I might stay the rest of the day,” he mused, “see if I can’t spread just a little bit of restraint or compassion. Although head office wouldn’t want me interfering too heavily, you know.”

Crowley knew. And he waited for him to leave. Aziraphale always left, or asked Crowley to leave, just as soon as they were done. It was the way of the arrangement, after all.

To his utmost astonishment, however, the angel seemed to make a decision, sort something in his head as he suddenly met Crowley’s eye again, his bastard-smile firmly in place as he lifted the sheets and scooted his body back into the warmth they had made together, laying on his front, propped up on his elbows, his eyes shining, his mouth so, so close to Crowley’s midriff. “So, I could easily stay here a little longer? If you want?”

Crowley nodded, his mouth too dry to speak, his mind still whirling at the change of rules, his body singing in anticipation of ‘again!’.

Aziraphale beamed and lowered his head to Crowley’s cock, humming happily, whilst Crowley just lay back, closed his eyes, slid his fingers into all that wonderfully soft angel-hair and let it all wash over him, the truth of the matter taking nine more years to crystallise in his mind.

__**__

He was, by then, back in London, living conveniently closely to Aziraphale, meeting up with him more regularly than they had done in all of their time together and busily working on his new concept of wide-spread minor mischief rather than full on misery. Currently, he was focussing keenly on the author Eleanor Sleath, regularly travelling up to the Midlands in order to tempt her into writing more Gothic novels of dubious quality and content. He knew that a racy novel, full of lust and betrayal and sex well outside of marriage with handsome rakes was just what a nation of supressed wives needed to incite them to rise up a little and cause their own brand of rebellion, maybe even start to right the balance of the genders a little. (Crowley might have felt a touch guilty for the harm he had done when offering Eve the apple rather than Adam. It had simply been the fact that Adam had been asleep at the time which had determined his choice, but Crowley had often regretted the way things had spun since then.)

Anyway, as part of his research into the thorough package of temptation he was putting together, he had sat himself down one day in the parlour of his ostentatious London house, and started reading Eleanor’s works. Two books later, he was pale and clammy, his heart racing, his chest tight, his cheeks flushed with shame as he realised that there was nothing wrong with his corporation at all, and that the symptoms he was experiencing whenever he was around the angel (or even _thought_ too much about him) meant, quite simply, that he was in love with him.

Crowley had never considered himself a _good_ demon anyway, not ever, not since the first moment he’d opened his eyes after the Fall, but to be a demon in love with an _angel_? The shame, the frustration, the cold, hard _fear_ butted heads with the floaty, bubbly, fluffy exhilaration he could never quite get a grip of. He was an embarrassment to Hell and, as such, a danger to both himself and Aziraphale. He was also a fool if he thought that anything would ever, _ever_ come of this. Aziraphale liked to fuck him from time to time, and also appreciated the easier life that cooperating with a demon could bring. Aziraphale did not _love_ him, would never _love_ him, Damned and unforgivable as he was, and he was more pathetic than ever if he thought anything different. 

It was too much. He knew he would never be able to drink it away, not without discorporating his body at any rate, and there was no way that he was about the repeat the mistakes of the last time he’d wanted an escape from the thoughts in his head. Instead, he simply went to sleep, determined to let his feelings for Aziraphale wane in the decades of oblivion he could create for himself.


	12. London, 1862

London, 1862

(156 years until the End of the World)

Slamming the large, heavy door behind him, Crowley threw his cane down the hallway, enjoying the clattering sound it made at it bounced along the tiles, and headed straight for the stairs.

Bloody Aziraphale. Bloody stupid, pompous, arrogant, self-important, _asinine_ Aziraphale.

How could he be so idiotic? How could he be so _deaf_? Honestly, Crowley made one bad decision _fifteen hundred_ _years_ ago and still Aziraphale couldn’t move past it? _Suicide pill_? That wasn’t what this was _at all_. And that was before Crowley even let himself start to analyse the _fraternising_ comment.

He’d only been awake a few months. Shattered from a pleasant and cosy nap by a very unpleasant recall to Hell, only really waking up completely when his bare feet slammed, rather painfully, onto the damp, rocky floor of Beelzebub’s chambers. He’d had enough about him to swap his ankle-length nightshirt for more appropriate hauled-in-front-of-your-superior-for-a-telling-off attire, but not before most of the assembled lackeys, (Hastur in particular) had had a good laugh at his expense.

He _was_ there for a telling off as well. His sixty-year silence had been noted and not appreciated; it was a shame that there hadn’t been any recent mass atrocities deemed awful enough by Hell so they’d leave him be, but that was just his luck he supposed. Beelzebub had been pissed enough with him that, when they mentioned a good period of torture to make sure he stayed awake in future, Crowley had honestly thought that that was where he had been headed. Hastur and Ligur certainly seemed keen enough to take it on and he’d had a job keeping his expression un-terrified whilst trying to not sound like he was pleading, whilst simultaneously reasoning (pleading) with Beelzebub to let him go back to his business and see what he could do.

He’d managed, in the end, to keep his skin on his earthly body and all of his organs in the correct places (i.e. inside) but it had been close, and he doubted he’d get away with it again. Long naps, it seemed were out, and, if he wanted to ensure that an appointment with torture didn’t make it into his diary at any point in the future, then he decided that a good insurance policy would be the way forward.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale had not agreed.

Crowley crashed onto the bed, his uncomfortable Victorian attire swapped for a nightshirt in the blink of an eye, his sigh of frustration failing to ease the sharp pain behind his ribs.

His risky sleep had _not_ made him feel any differently towards Aziraphale, in fact, the angel’s joy at seeing him again after so many years of silence had suffused him with a warmth so beatific that it had almost burnt him. They’d indulged their carnal desires twice in the few months he’d been awake as well, far, _far_ more regularly than he’d been used to, and he’d been starting to wonder, starting to fool himself, obviously, that Aziraphale had missed him, had actually wanted _him_ , actually… But no. Fool himself he had. Aziraphale did not want him. Aziraphale was terrified that Heaven would see them and know that they were _fraternising_.

Right.

Fine.

Good.

That was all perfectly clear then.

Crowley was on his own and needed to source his own damn _insurance_.

But, and infinitely more important, Crowley was on his _own_ and it was high time he started acting like it. No more Arrangement, and no more _arrangement_. The angel didn’t need him? Well, he didn’t need the angel either. Or, he could at least train himself into not needing him and that training needed to start immediately.

Even before he started work on creating the really huge disaster he’d promised Beelzebub in order to keep himself out of Hastur’s maggoty clutches.


	13. London, 1941

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter, since the last was so short :)

London, 1941

(77 years until the End of the World)

The night was damp and dark, as nights always were these days, and Crowley tipped his hat a little further over his face as he hurried along St James’ Street, reaching out around him to check if he was being watched, before ducking, a subtly as possible, into the darkened side entrance to what everyone knew as the former MGM building. He walked along empty corridors, deliberately derelict, and through another plain door before stepping into a pool of light and the barrels of two Enfield rifles. He stopped, calmly held his hands either side of his head, waiting until a door at the far end of the corridor opened and a voice rang out.

“Friendly,” the two rifles lowered, and the soldiers slid back to a posture of ease. “Mr. Crowley,” the owner of the voice approached, his shiny black shoes gleaming in the light, his black pin-strip suit obviously made to his exact measurements, “Glad you could make it.”

Crowley lowered his arms, tugging his own suit jacket back down and making his way along the corridor past the two blank faced guards. “Didn’t really have much choice, did I?” the bitterness was hard to miss. “I thought we had an agreement here, seems that there’s only me living up to it.”

His guide’s eyes narrowed, “Not quite fair,” he countered but Crowley just shook his head.

Together, they walked along the corridor, through another set of doors and then down, two flights of steps, passing five more guards until, eventually, they pushed through a final set of doors and into a room full of the humming of voices and a perceptible sense of both urgency and dread. Crowley shivered.

At the far side of the room there was a further door, and it was here that the two men were headed, Crowley not even answering when a fresh-faced aide offered to take his hat and glasses, pushing through into a room dominated by a large table and a lot of dour faces. The guide and Crowley took the last two seats.

“Gentlemen,” a cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the table. “Thank you for coming tonight-”

“We didn’t need to meet like this, in such an obvious manner,” Crowley’s voice was quiet, but carried through everything, cutting a stillness into the room. “It is in my very best interests to keep my meetings with you _extremely_ quiet.”

“From whom?” a tall man at the far end of the table spoke, his eyes glittering like onyx in the half-light, his hair Brylcreemed into submission. “There are no Nazi spies here tonight.”

Crowley held his stare, “And there are worse monsters in creation than the Nazis.”

Brylcreem-man took a long drag of his cigarette, “It’s comments like that which make you hard to trust Mr. Crowley.”

“And it’s idiots like you that make it hard to cooperate,” Crowley shot back to a few hastily-supressed sniggers from around the table. “You didn’t have that much trouble trusting me when I told you where the _Muenchen_ would be most vulnerable, did you? Or the _Lauenburg_ for that matter. I’m surmising that your boffins at Bletchley have made good use of the goodies you picked up there?” No one answered, Crowley let the awkwardness build before nodding and slouching back in his seat. “I thought so. So, do you want to know what I do so that we can move on to talk of issues I find more interesting?”

Irritated but not beaten, Brylcreem-man kept his eyes fixed on Crowley’s glasses. “And why do you find Hitler’s search for books of nonsense prophecy so interesting?”

Crowley didn’t shift a muscle, “Does that matter?” he countered. “You want your information, I want mine. We trade, we’re all happy. Now, are we trading,” he pushed his seat back, “or am I Ieaving?”

The tension in the room intensified, all eyes slid to Brylcreem-man, he and Crowley stared at each other and then, finally, the edge of smile flittered across his face. “Sit down, Mr. Crowley,” he offered quietly. “You share your information, and we’ll share ours.”

Crowley drew the moment out, kept his impassive face fixed on Brylcreem-man until the other had to look away, a bead of sweat on his forehead, and only then did he slide back into his chair, his sprawl as souciant as possible. “Operation Barbarossa,” he drawled. “You know it?”

Blank faces and shaken heads met his words as Crowley set about telling what he knew, knowing that he would get the information he wanted as soon as he was done.

Twenty minutes later, a 1926 Bentley was seen tearing through the blackout of central London, winding a desperate path from St. James’ Street to St. Dunstan-in-the-East church.

__**__

“Angel. _Aziraphale._ Here,” Crowley waited until Aziraphale’s hazy eyes were on him before he handed over the second cognac of the evening, sitting down once more on the edge of a wing-backed upholstered chair and staring, in some concern, as Aziraphale sipped, listlessly at the drink, the bag of books still cradled protectively on his knee. “Angel,” his voice was as soft as he could make it. “Are you alright?”

Finally, Aziraphale looked at him, really looked at him, and blinked, almost like he was waking up. “You have a motor car,” he offered, pulling a smile to Crowley’s lips.

“I do.”

“I haven’t seen you for such a long time.”

_You haven’t._ These were words that Crowley would never speak aloud, however. _I was trying my best to fall out of love with you, before you crushed my heart. It was a useless endeavour._ “I’ve been busy,” was what he offered instead.

“Those Nazis knew your name.”

Crowley frowned, yes, they had known about him rather too well; he hoped that that was just through his publicised interest in the books of prophecy. He had to be careful – as ever, there was a thin line to walk between meddling in the affairs of men and taking sides in this whole stupid war. Crowley _had_ taken sides, of course he had, he did rather like his life here in London and didn’t fancy Hitler ruining it all for him, but still… he was always on that tightrope.

He shrugged at Aziraphale though, “I’m sure they make it their business to know as many people as they can. Must be useful when you’re in the market for blackmailing and murdering.”

Aziraphale nodded, still clutching his books to his chest and then startled, “Oh!” his eyes flicked to Crowley’s shoes. “Are your feet terribly painful?”

“Nah,” they were tender, that was all, fine to walk on, good thick soles on his shoes. “They’re fine.”

Aziraphale nodded again, he seemed most unsettled by the whole evening.

“Look,” Crowley pushed to his feet, hiding the wince that the movement provoked. “You’re obviously ready for a bit of peace and quiet. I’ll leave you to it and-”

“No,” Aziraphale’s hand shot out and grabbed Crowley’s wrist with a surprising amount of force. “The all-clear hasn’t sounded yet,” a distant bomb rumbled far away to the east, “We’re safe here, for tonight. Please stay. You can stay down here. Or have my bed and I’ll stay down here and…” he trailed off, his blue eyes so wide and there was that millennia-old pain in Crowley’s chest once more, except this time, he recognised it for the love that it was. He sighed. He was so fucked.

He pushed out a smile and patted Aziraphale’s hand in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “Alright,” it was obvious that Aziraphale didn’t want to be alone, it must have been quite a shock being double-crossed like that. “Of course I’ll stay, if you want me to. But maybe you should get some rest tonight? I know you usually don’t, but you do look a little pale, a little worn out. What do you think? A few hours of rest?” Aziraphale nodded and remained mute as Crowley helped him, and the books he was still clinging to, up the stairs to the flat and the bedroom he’d never even seen before.

It took a few minutes to clear the bed of scattered books, and another few to separate Aziraphale from his bag and get him into a set of cotton pyjamas. Crowley pulled back the sheets then and helped him in, covering him back over and switching off the lights as the distant bombs still thudded and rumbled. “Okay now?” he asked, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “You think you can sleep?”

In the silence, Crowley watched him, watched his eyes flick around the darkened room, skipping in a nervous manner until they finally landed on Crowley’s face. “Will you stay?” he eventually asked, his voice low and soft.

“Of course,” Crowley smiled at him. “I’ll bed down on the sofa and I’ll be here when-”

He froze as Aziraphale folded the bed covers back again. “I meant, will you _stay_?” he whispered carefully.

_No!_ Crowley’s mind yelled at him. _Come on, you’ve gone cold turkey for fifty-nine years! Don’t cave in to him now and start it all again!_ But is that what it was? Really? Had the fifty-nine years of absence made him think of Aziraphale any less? Any differently? Of course it hadn’t. What would be the point on dragging it out for _another_ fifty-nine?

Before he really registered that he’d made a decision, Crowley was swapping his own clothes for pyjamas and sliding under the sheets at Aziraphale’s side. They shuffled around a little, Crowley trying to make sure that they left a reasonable distance between each other, Aziraphale seeming to want to get as close as was decent and eventually they settled into a compromise with a good six inches of no man’s land between them.

“I know you don’t want me to thank you-”

“I don’t.”

“Well, but, my dear boy…”

“I know,” Crowley interrupted. And he did, he knew _just_ what those books meant to Aziraphale, that’s exactly why he had saved them.

They slid into silence once more, facing each other in the dark, and then Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand reach out and rest, gently, on his waist. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

Crowley swallowed hard, _missed the fucking, more like_.

“I thought about you.”

_Thought about the fucking, no doubt_.

The hand on his waist shifted a little, drifted around to trail over Crowley’s flat stomach and he felt his cock wake up at the hint that touched provided. “I was thinking, now,” the angel whispered.

_Thinking about turning me over and fucking me?_

“Thinking about how good it would feel to have _you_ inside _me_. What do _you_ think, dear boy? Is that something you would like to do?”

For a moment, Crowley could do nothing, not a damn thing, he was sure that even the heart he’d told to beat for the last six thousand years had simply stopped. He stared, stupidly, his brain fizzing in his head, trying to get Aziraphale’s words to make sense to him. The angel wanted… him… wanted… _Crowley_ … wanted… it was no use. He shook his head, uselessly, feeling everything whiting out with the enormity of what had been offered and then a hand landed softly on his cheek.

“Crowley? You don’t have to, you know. If you’d rather just-”

“No,” Crowley’s brain burst back into life, his cock rising to tent his pyjamas in anticipation, his mouth tripping over itself to drown out the angel and ensure that the offer wasn’t rescinded. “No, no, that’s fine, I mean, if you’d _like_ me to, I mean – have you done it that way _before_?”

Aziraphale chuckled a little self-consciously, Crowley thought, and the thumb on his face stroked along his cheek bone. “Well, no actually,” he admitted softly. “It’s rather a personal thing for me – of course it is – I mean, I’d need to really trust the person who…” he trailed off. “Oh, listen to me, my dear, going on like a ninny-head. Of course you know all that, of course you understand the trust required. But it would seem, really, that the only person I _do_ trust to do this, with me, is, well – you.”

Crowley’s brain effervesced again, actually producing a whining sound in his ears which he had to wait to die down before he could even start about thinking, before he could even start to consider what it was he’d been gifted. Aziraphale _trusted_ him, well of course he did, Crowley had known that. But with _this_ , this absolute treasure of trust. And he wanted Crowley to do this, he wanted Crowley inside him. He didn’t mind that he was a demon, Damned, unforgivable, he was willing overlook all of that and let Crowley fuck _him_! It was no wonder that Crowley was finding it all rather difficult to process.

Aziraphale was watching him, though, staring at him in the darkness that their eyes easily penetrated, waiting for some kind of signal that Crowley was on board – a fairly recent courtesy, the reasons for which Crowley still didn’t quite understand. It seemed that everything in their ordered, rule-based _arrangement_ was changing. Crowley was a creature of change, he could roll with the punches better than most but still, he liked to be the engineer of those changes himself, changes that were imposed upon him made him feel rather wrong footed, suspicious even. He was willing to give it a go, however, if it meant getting a single chance to top Aziraphale.

He nodded, just the once, and the smile he got in return was positively blinding.

Aziraphale flipped over, just like that, presenting his back to Crowley and vanishing both of their clothes in an eager miracle. Once again, Crowley was wrong footed, he’d never been the instigator of their trysts, he’d always, and happily at that, followed Aziraphale’s lead; he _was_ the demon after all, who was to say that he would be able to choose activities and the pace that an _angel_ would like? But now, well, it seemed that he had little choice in the matter as Aziraphale was wriggling eagerly and glancing back over his shoulder with excitement in his eyes and Crowley felt the weight of expectation weighing heavily on him.

“I’ve prepared myself for you, my dear, just push right in when you’re ready.”

Something that felt a little like disappointment swirled in Crowley’s stomach at that. Maybe, in these last thirty seconds, he’d already started wondering at the possibility that he might have been able to cover Aziraphale with his mouth. Maybe he’d been almost wiped out by the thought that he could prepare Aziraphale in a way that Aziraphale had never prepared him. Maybe he would have been able to smooth and stroke and tease and stoke… but no. No. It was simply business as usual. Fucking.

But not actually business as _usual_ usual, and he had to remember that and be grateful for it. Which he was. Absolutely.

He shuffled forward, one hand on the angel’s shoulder, one on his own swollen dick. He looked down and swallowed. He had, in moments of extreme weakness, imagined what it would be like to finally get his chance to do this. He could have asked, he knew that, obviously, but the possibility of rejection had been something too terrifying, and far too likely, to ever consider it seriously. As much as he’d always wanted more with Aziraphale, as much as he’d wanted it to be more about what they felt in their hearts rather than their genitals, he’d also always been pathetically grateful for the crumbs he was given; he wasn’t going to do anything to rock the boat on that any time soon.

He swallowed and lined himself up, cursing himself not to let it all be over embarrassingly quickly, then started to push in.

Crowley had an excellent imagination, the best there was in all of Heaven and Hell and he used it to its absolute limit now, sliding deeper and deeper into Aziraphale’s body, picturing all kinds of repulsive images as he stopped himself from just bottoming out and _coming_. Aziraphale wasn’t helping. Those _sounds_ , the ones that had accompanied them through thousands of eateries across the years, came out in force now, Aziraphale squirming and shimmying and shuddering whilst groaning and gasping and moaning.

And then, just as Crowley thought the danger had passed, “Oh, Crowley, you feel even better than I had ever dreamed!”

To hear that Aziraphale had thought about this, _dreamed_ about this, well, that was too much for even Crowley’s imagination to combat and he came, shoving himself as deep as he could and shuddering violently as he buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

He hadn’t even finished spending himself when the shame hit him. A deep, mortifying heat that ran up his neck and into his cheeks and, instinctively, he started to draw back, to run for the hills and hide for perhaps another six thousand years.

“No!” Aziraphale’s hand clamped hard around his wrist, though, pinning him in place, his arse pressing backward to try and keep Crowley from withdrawing. “No dearest,” he offered, more gently this time, “it’s fine. Of course it’s fine. I understand how you feel, really, I do.”

Crowley doubted that. He doubted that Aziraphale could ever begin to comprehend how much Crowley loved him. He doubted he could understand the anger that simmered inside him over _everything_ , everything he couldn’t have and wasn’t anymore. He doubted that he could understand the shame and self-loathing he’d felt since the Fall. How could an _angel_ ever start to understand any of _that_? And that was before he even got started on the total humiliation of not even being able to fuck properly. But still, it was a way back, wasn’t it? An olive branch. Aziraphale obviously wanted to get off here, it wouldn’t help him if Crowley simply ran away and hid.

“Take your time, dearest, I’ll wait.”

_Dearest._ The most precious of names. The one that only ever came out when they were fucking, yes, but only on those occasions when Aziraphale seemed to need something more, seemed to wish that Crowley was more than he ever could be. And it was rare, in all their times together, _dearest_ had only been used twice, on two separate occasions, never in the same minute. He was waiting though, his hand now on Crowley’s jutting hip, stroking softly, soothingly, as Crowley breathed against the angel’s neck, eyes closed, mortification washing through him as he compared himself against all of those expectations that Aziraphale had had of him – and came up woefully short.

But, what was he thinking here???? He was a _demon_ for Satan’s sake! His corporation wasn’t human, it wasn’t bound by the same ridiculous limitations as a human body, it would do as he told it to, always did (almost – he didn’t like to think about the stubbornly serpentine eyes). He took a deep breath, imagined his cock still nestled deeply in Aziraphale’s body and filled it once more, swelling it with hot blood and shuddering in pathetic gratitude as Aziraphale went back to squirming against him, a delighted, “Oh!” rushing from his angelic lips as Crowley, inadvertently, brushed against his prostate.

It was back on, Crowley was back in the game and he could do this, he could absolutely do this – he might have been a late-starter where sex was concerned, but he’d utilised it often enough since, for the purpose of temptations, obviously, but also to slake his own lust, his own frustration at never really getting what he wanted from the angel. Either way, he knew what he was doing here, and he’d never had complaints from the humans he’d done this to.

He started slowly, drawing almost all of the way about before pushing back in again, feeling the slick slide of the angel’s lube and his own come. Aziraphale shuddered and groaned deep in his throat. He kept his pace for as long as he possibly could, until he was drenched in a sweat that he usually didn’t allow and had had to hold onto Aziraphale’s wrists to stop him from touching himself. Then, he sped up. Fast, deep thrusts that made the angel grunt and shift forward a tiny bit along the mattress. Crowley held him firm and quickened his pace even more.

Now, Aziraphale was keening, a wordless noise too high for a moan, his eyes closed, his mouth open as Crowley ploughed into him, watching him in the dark with his unnatural eyes, perfect for this, making sure that the stimulus was just the right side of pleasurable, not about to tip him into oblivion just yet.

Then, when Aziraphale started to get scrabbly, started to fight to touch his swollen and dripping cock, Crowley switched tactics, and angles. Within three experimental thrusts, he had found Aziraphale’s prostate and delivered the next twenty lunges absolutely dead-on target. And then, just at the point where Aziraphale, head back, mouth open, was right on the edge, he switched again, burying himself as far as he could go, and _circling_ , no longer hammering at the sensitive gland, but simply brushing against it, keeping the pleasure alive but allowing the urgency to drop.

Aziraphale cried out.

Crowley kept at this for as long as he dared, watching Aziraphale carefully, not wanting the desperation to slide too far, but wanting to draw everything out for as long as he could. Then, at the point that Aziraphale seemed to be coming out of it, Crowley changed again. Ideally, he would have pulled out completely, flipped his partner over and then nailed his prostate into the mattress, but the ever-shifting rules were unclear to him, the last thing he wanted was to blow it all by over-stepping his boundaries. Instead, he inched up a little, wrapped his arm around the angel’s soft middle and pulled them closer together. Then – he went for it.

His first thrust, almost brutal in its intensity, hit Aziraphale’s prostate head on, pulling a wordless yell from his lips and setting his fingers scrabbling at Crowley’s forearm. Crowley didn’t pause though, gritting his teeth in concentration, he did it again, and again, and again and again, hammering away, living for the gasp or the moan, or the “ _Crowley!_ ” or the “Yes!” that his efforts rewarded him.

The desperate scrabbling intensified, Aziraphale’s fingers digging half-moons into the flesh of Crowley’s arm, his angel-hair sweat-soaked and pressed against his skull in tiny, tiny curls. The last of the bombs had fallen hours ago, and the weak morning sunlight was starting to lighten the world beyond the blackout blinds, but still Crowley laboured; this was it, this was the end, and Aziraphale was going to come like never before.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s words had deserted him now, and his back was as taut as a knocked bow, his mouth open, his eyes closed. “Oh, oh, _oh_!”

Crowley shook the sweat from his eyes and concentrated, here it was, his big moment. He dug in, perfected his angle, doubled his speed and...

“ _Oh!_ ”

He didn’t even need five more thrusts to push Aziraphale over the edge, then found himself tumbling as well as the contractions squeezed his cock past the point of denial. He shuddered and clung to the angel, shooting another load deep inside him as Aziraphale emptied himself, untouched, all over the flannel sheets.

Silence fell over the little room. Crowley hadn’t moved, reluctant to pull out, reluctant to bring their pseudo-intimacy to an end.

He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale was asleep, it was something he did rarely, but still something he did. He wasn’t sure if he’d done enough… wiped the angel’s memory of his first embarrassing failure with his subsequent performance. Had he got anywhere close to what Aziraphale had dreamed of with him?

Then he shifted, and Crowley’s heart seized. What would he say? How would this go? Maybe it wasn’t what he’d wanted? Crowley had been here _hours_ , they’d been together for _hours_ , what if Aziraphale had only wanted a quick roll in the hay?

He shouldn’t have got involved again, fucking hell, he _shouldn’t_. All the years that he’d managed without all of this stupid second guessing and stress and anxiety and fucking _doubts_. He didn’t need it, bloody hell, he didn’t need it.

He pulled out, cringed at the _tide_ of release that followed him and scrambled, inelegantly, from the bed, wincing as his feet, still tender from the night before, hit bare floor boards.

“Crowley?”

And, _shit_ , that was Aziraphale’s disappointed voice, it wasn’t like Crowley didn’t know it well enough by now. He clicked his fingers and materialised another sharp, new suit, glasses, hat, before he could turn and, blank-faced, meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

“You’re leaving?”

He shrugged, terror gnawing at him. What would he do if Aziraphale said it hadn’t been enough, if _Crowley_ hadn’t been enough for him? What the fuck had he agreed to _any_ of this for? He pushed out a flat smile, “Things to do,” and headed for the door.

“ _Crowley_!” he flinched then, at the note of poignancy that ran through Aziraphale’s voice and, despite himself, he turned. Aziraphale was sat up in the bed, still rumpled and sweaty with the smell of semen _everywhere_ ; Crowley needed to get out. He seemed lost for words for just a moment and then he pulled himself up a little, ridiculous as he sat there completely naked, and Crowley could feel him trying to peer through his glasses. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear of my gratitude…”

Crowley’s stomach tightened, “For the _fuck_? Nah, it was on the house.”

Aziraphale’s face crumpled and Crowley felt like the world’s largest shit. “For the books.” Why did he have to sound so fucking _sad_?

Flushing, Crowley shrugged. “Same.”

They stared at each other, _run, run, run_ buzzing through Crowley’s head but his painful feet were glued to the floor, held fast in Aziraphale’s sour expression.

“Will I see you again sometime soon?” the angel eventually asked, tone icy, “Or will you avoid me for another fifty-nine years?”

Crowley flushed, and could do nothing more than shrug. Aziraphale’s cold gaze burning holes into his lovely suit, Crowley left.


	14. The Saint Nightclub, Manhattan, 1984

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphically described symptoms of illness.

The Saint Nightclub, Manhattan, 1984

(34 years until the End of the World)

The thump of the bass line pulsed in Crowley’s chest as he slithered his way around the very edges of the cavernous room, eyes skipping restlessly from figure to figure, the tension in his jaw making his teeth ache. He’d been in New York these last six months, still walking his tightrope of pleasing the powers that be whilst being able to live with the things he did. Now, of course, he also had to balance that with his inconvenient devotion to the angel, trying to make sure he wasn’t discorporated through his incredible naivety, keeping enough of a distance between them that Hell (and Heaven) didn’t see them as _fraternising_ , but also allowing himself just a sliver of gratification, just enough to keep him going, never enough to make the longing for a regularly-absent Aziraphale unbearable. Crowley reckoned he could teach a plate spinner a thing or two.

So, New York. Crowley kept up with the news of the world, it wouldn’t do for him to be behind Hell at all, not any more, and he’d spotted an opportunity, a way to get them all off his back in the emptiness following the two World Wars they thought Crowley had engineered. AIDS was building swiftly, deaths coming exponentially, the homosexual community still receiving the lion’s share of the tragedy (and the blame), but Crowley knew that this was not a ‘gay plague’, he could see the causes and the patterns and knew that the whole horrific situation was going to get an awful lot worse before it got better.

But it would get better, he knew that too. Hell would get their misery, hopefully enough to get them off Crowley’s back for another decade or so, and the humans would find ways to prevent and manage and treat. They always did, and if Crowley was diverting large sums of money into research facilities to hurry that along, who had to know about any of it?

The gay community was reeling though. Friends and lovers were falling whilst fear and prejudice were rife. Crowley could taste it now, even above the sweat and dry ice, semen and hash, the fear permeated everything and took up residence in Crowley’s bones – he hated it.

So, why was he here, then? On a cold winter’s night in early ’84? He had a large condo with a roof terrace and views out towards Lady Liberty, he had clubs that were less of a walk and certainly less tinged in fear, he had a circle of acquaintances out here who would always drop anything to spend an evening with the enigmatic _Tony…_ but here, well, here there was a definite hint of angelic presence. Of course he would come.

Aziraphale wasn’t here though, not in any of the writhing bodies packing out the dance floor and really, Crowley was relieved. Part of him just couldn’t stomach the thought of the angel here, rubbing shoulders with all this PVC and studs and sweat and flesh… whilst another part of him longed for it.

He dropped down a level, heading to the quieter, and darker, bar area. The music was set at a much less invasive level down here, enough to chat, if you wanted to. There weren’t that many in-depth conversations flowing, not to Crowley’s eyes anyway. Plenty of necking though, and roaming hands, and Crowley felt that infuriating tug in his ribs once more as he skipped over couple after couple. Whilst he and Aziraphale had, no doubt, fucked each other more than any other couple in the whole club (the whole world…) he couldn’t help but envy them all and their ease and familiarity, their _kissing_ … How could humans, so transient and weak when compared to him, have something he coveted so, so dearly?

“Crowley?”

He jumped at the voice behind him, caught in his staring at a couple of guys, who both looked well into their fifties, as they held hands and talked right into the mouth of the other, punctuating their sentences with fond kisses. He spun on the spot and there he was, reunited after a brief nothingness of eight months and still, in Crowley’s eyes, far, far too long. He looked like he always did, coat, cravat, waistcoat, pleated trousers, un-ruffled and un-troubled by the sweating, seething masses of the club. Crowley guessed he’d confounded himself, somehow, keep everyone from noticing him too much, was that cheating? Frivolous use of miracles? Probably no more than the vibes Crowley sent out to keep wandering hands off his own arse and his cock.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Crowley couldn’t help but notice the slight hint of accusation in that tone, even as he made sure that the two older kissing guys suddenly decided that they’d had enough of each other for the night and emptied their booth for he and the angel to slide into their spots. “What am I doing here?” he miracled them two freshly squeezed orange and vodkas (pink umbrella in the angel’s) and took a mouthful before gesturing jerkily down at his inhumanly tight leather trousers and obscenely clinging black t-shirt. “Blending in! Not looking like someone’s Grandad come to run them home…”

Predictably, Aziraphale rolled his eyes and took a long sip out of the straw that had just appeared in his glass. “You don’t have to dress as a _gigolo_ , dear boy, you only have to make sure you slide under their radars, that’s all.”

Crowley had been right – of course he had. Well, at least he no longer had to worry about anyone making a move on the angel. Not _here_ , anyway. And not tonight.

“So?”

Aziraphale was staring pointedly at him whilst Crowley desperately tried not to wonder about the last time the angel had fucked a human. He looked up, hopelessly lost. “So?”

The angel leant in, “ _Why are you here_?” his blue eyes were piercing. “I had heard that this latest plague upon the humans was infernally created, but really Crowley, I had hoped you were _better_ than that!”

A cold, creeping hurt settled in Crowley’s belly and he ruthlessly forced it down, buried it in layers of anger. “Really?” he allowed a single eyebrow to rise above the rim of his glasses, sneered a little in satisfaction at the frown which appeared on Aziraphale’s forehead. “It’s business, angel, you know that. Got to keep the wolf from the door and all that.”

“The only wolf here, Crowley, is you.” Aziraphale sat back in his seat and sucked on his straw, his expression more like sucking on a lime, whilst Crowley tried to breathe around the pain in his chest. Six thousand years – anyone would have thought that Crowley would have been able to live with his own abhorrence by now.

“And what are you doing here, then? Hiding your light under a bushel? I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that you could use some of all that holy fucking _crap_ inside you to make any of this any better, did it?”

Blue eyes, _injured_ blue eyes, jumped Crowley’s way and he rejoiced a little at his direct hit. “I can’t do that, you know I can’t.”

“No? Why not?”

Aziraphale stared at him, “Because I _can’t_ Crowley! I can’t interfere like that!”

Nodding, Crowley stirred his drink, thoughtfully. “Yeah, absolutely. I know that. After all, I’ve had a front row seat at all the things you can’t do.”

“Now, really-”

“The Flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, Golgotha-”

“Crowley!”

“Jerusalem, the Black Death…” they stared at each other. “I was there for it all, wasn’t I?”

Aziraphale stared at the sticky table. “You’re hardly being fair.”

“You think?”

He was being ignored, Crowley hated being ignored. He glanced around the room skipping from consciousness to consciousness until he found precisely what he was looking for. “Hey,” the toe of his black boot jabbed into Aziraphale’s ankle. “Look up. You see him there? The blond kid? Red t-shirt?”

Scowling, Aziraphale looked up and nodded. “Yes. What of him?”

“Robert Hutchinson the third, eldest son of Norma and Bob Hutchinson, much loved brother of Tina and Robin. He look okay to you? You think he’s doing okay? Everything going for him? He’s hoping to go to college later this year, study architecture, make it big in the world. You see him?”

“Of course I do. And I don’t see what-”

“Look.”

The room around them seemed to warp and shimmer. Sound faded a little, distorted, like under the water of a deep and soothing bath. Robert still sat at the bar, talking and laughing with the guy opposite and then… Aziraphale gasped. Before them, Robert’s smile faded, his healthy pallor too. He became grey, clammy, a shaking hand reached up to rub at the back of his neck, his temple. He coughed, coughed again, was soon seized by a coughing fit even as he wound his own arms around himself, rubbing ineffectively at his biceps as sweat stood out across his brow. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s word was an outraged breath. “Stop that!”

Robert’s deathly pallor remained as his head sagged into a shaking hand. He lost weight in moments, his rounded cheeks sinking, the collar bones protruding from underneath his now-baggy t-shirt. Blemishes appeared on the back of his neck, large and growing, deep red in colour, standing out starkly against the white of his skin. He lifted his head, panic clear in his eyes, and pressed a palm to his chest, gasping for air, coughing and wheezing, sweat running down his temples, his entire body shaking and shaking and shaking.

“Stop it!” a hand slammed into Crowley’s thigh and wrenched his eyes away from Robert at the bar, Aziraphale’s eyes were glowing in righteous fury. “Stop it right now, you, you… wretched _demon_!”

Crowley turned back to Robert who was now swaying, alarmingly, on his bar stool. “You stop it,” he hissed, “You’re the one on the side of the _righteous_ , remember?”

“ _I can’t_!” it was the closest to a hiss that Crowley had ever heard from the angel. “You started this! You stop it! Stop it right now, Crowley, or I’ll… I’ll… I’ll _smite_ you!”

Crowley turned back to him, “Kiss me,” he offered instead, his mouth running away without his brain once more and that twisting agony intensifying even as he observed the horrified revulsion wash across the angel’s face. But Crowley had never been a quitter. “No?” he nodded back to where Robert was swaying dangerously on his stool as his lungs tried to cough themselves out of his body. “Not even to save poor old Bobby-boy?”

It seemed that Aziraphale had no words for that.

A crash tugged at their attention and, as one, the two immortal beings turned to watch Robert as he writhed on the sticky floor, the life of The Saint carrying on around him even as a single trail of blood started to trickle from the corner of his mouth.

Abruptly, it was too much even for Crowley. With a snap of fingers the colour and the light returned, and Robert was back on his stool, pink and laughing and completely ignorant to the fate that awaited him. Crowley curled his fingers around his glass to stop them from trembling and took a long gulp of the neat vodka that suddenly filled his glass.

“That was the most evil thing I have ever seen you do…” Aziraphale hissed at him, his blue eyes judgemental and cold.

Crowley shrugged. “I didn’t infect him,” he muttered into his glass, “The guy he’s fawning all over did. Two nights ago. Neither of them have a clue,” he turned, suddenly desperate, suddenly wanting, _needing_ Aziraphale to do this. “But you can fix him,” he whispered, _implored_. “You can! Only you. You’re right, this is an evil infection but it’s not from me. I can’t fix it though, I can’t save any of the poor buggers here, the poor buggers right across the world, but you can, angel. You can!” Aziraphale was shaking his head even as Crowley’s desperation increased. “You can push them in the right directions, you can give them cures and vaccines and, and, and miracles, angel! You can fix all this!”

He tailed off as Aziraphale pursed his lips. “How dare you?” he whispered, and Crowley’s heart sank as he saw the flashes of righteous fury in his eyes. “You made this mess and now you want me to fix it all for you?”

Crowley shook his head, “I told you, I didn’t-”

“Don’t lie to me, serpent!”

Crowley almost swallowed his own tongue.

“You brought me here just to taunt me-”

“I didn’t bring you anywhere!”

“To parade all these poor people in front of me and then _tempt_ me to _cure_ them, to _kiss_ you?”

Crowley stared at him, utterly lost for words at the repulsion on Aziraphale’s face.

“Trying to make me Fall? Bring me down as low as you? That’s despicable, _Crawley_ , even for a being that slithers on its belly, that’s…” he stopped, choked, his eyes shining in something more like tears than fury, and frantically looking away.

Crowley was shaking, sweating more than Robert had been just minutes previously. He pushed to his feet, his knees feeling like water. “I just wanted you to stop this,” he whispered, horrified at how his voice shook. “I just wanted-” but he couldn’t do it to himself, couldn’t possibly humiliate himself any more. Instead, he just shook his head and fled.

__**__

Three days later, he stood at the railing looking out over the Hudson, a take-out cup of stupid, fancy coffee forgotten and going cold between his frozen fingers. He was aware of Aziraphale approaching him, long before he arrived; had considered pitching over and into the river but it was freezing cold and he’d probably discorporate and he really wasn’t sure he could cope with a trip down below just now.

Aziraphale arrived at his side, leaned out next to him, the only part of him Crowley could see were the worn leather gloves, the fingers of which were linked together, loosely, scant inches from Crowley’s blue ones.

“Crowley.”

Business-like, that was that voice.

“I’m surprised to find you still in town.”

Ah, yes. He suppose he did rather have the reputation for vanishing when the going got awkward, but he’d tried sleeping through the pain, he’d tried drink and drugs, and nothing had worked, so what was the point? What was the point of any of it anymore?

He stared out at the slated water, resisted throwing out a biting comment about _not going fast_ enough _now_ , and heard Aziraphale sigh.

“I’ve done some research. I know it wasn’t you, now. The plague.”

As if it needed any clarification.

“I just don’t know why you would _say_ that in the first place, though.”

Crowley huffed out a laugh, sad and bitter. “Maybe I’m just hoping that, one day, you won’t believe me.”

They slid into silence again, Crowley wishing Aziraphale would leave and stay with him forever, all at the same time.

“But you still tried to tempt me into Falling,” it was hard to tell if there was more hurt or anger in his tone. “And that, well…” Crowley could catch the shake of his head out of the corner of his eye, “well, that wasn’t kind of you.”

What could Crowley say to that? That he’d known that Aziraphale would never have done it? Would never have flouted the law of Heaven and saved just _one_ of those people? That he’d known he’d never kiss him? Never had, never would? That he’d known that even if Aziraphale had pushed the limits just a little, then Heaven would not make him Fall? That they’d had plenty of opportunities over the years already, that Aziraphale had already done far more than Crowley _ever_ had to deserve Falling? He felt that it was all true, but he just did not have the heart to get involved in any of it.

Aziraphale sighed at his silence, and reached out, a steady, warm hand on the arm of his thin jacket. “Oh!” he recoiled instantly, but then the hand was straight back. “Oh, my dear boy, you’re so cold!”

“I’m always cold,” and he was, without Aziraphale’s regard, his meagre attentions, he was always cold.

“Why aren’t you wearing some proper clothing? You know how you get in cold weather!”

He did. Of course he did. He just didn’t care, that was all.

“Crowley, come on, come on, let me take you back to my room and warm you up. Come on, my dear, it’s okay, everything will be alright.”

Crowley let himself be led away from the railing, let himself be taken into a sumptuous hotel suite and thoroughly warmed up. Trouble was though, he was beginning to think that, no matter how long they had to do this dance of theirs, it was actually _never_ going to be alright.


	15. London, 2016

London, 2016

(2 years until the End of the World)

Nanny Ashtoreth sat primly on the side of her sensible, firm single bed and looked, yet again, at the letter in her hand, wondering what on earth it could possibly mean. It wasn’t like they hadn’t, in the nine years since they’d been working together to influence Warlock, _seen_ each other – after all, they saw each other almost every day. But it was true, they hadn’t really had the chance to socialise together as they had done in days gone by.

Well, Ashtoreth rolled her eyes at herself, it wasn’t like they had _ever_ socialised, really, in all of their long acquaintance, but they had shared drinks and meals from time to time, when Aziraphale had deemed it safe, and they’d drained alcohol in the back room of the bookshop. And they’d fucked. Well, _Crowley_ had fucked, despite the turmoil of the ‘80s, they had fucked many times. But, that was Crowley. Nanny Ashtoreth hadn’t, she wouldn’t, and, well, she’d never been asked to be honest, but anyway. She shook her head, how confusing could one (admittedly, very long) life be?

But, since the Godfather Arrangement had started, (and how many _arrangements_ could one relationship handle as well?) there had been meetings on buses and in busy Museum cafes, duck feeding sessions and lonely bandstands, but no drinking, no meals out. And no fucking. So what was this?

Ashtoreth read it again: ‘Dearest,’ she couldn’t stop the shudder that ran though her at that seldom used name, ‘I find myself missing you. The real you. And I’m wondering if you could see it in yourself to come around and visit me, in the cosiest of meeting places, tonight? I have Bordeaux. And gin. And maybe you would like to stay the night? I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.’

It wasn’t signed, it didn’t need to be, and plausible deniability was still essential, after all, but Ashtoreth knew who it was from, what she didn’t know, was what it meant…

__**__

It was hours later, after Warlock was in bed and Nanny’s thirty-six hours of weekly leave were just about to start when it suddenly struck her, “A booty call…” she whispered, a rubber duck in each hand and her sensible, heeled court shoes splashing through the bath water that was soaking the master bathroom floor, “It’s a fucking _booty call_.” Still unsure about how she was to manage all of this, Ashtoreth vanished the water with a thought and went to pack her carpet bag.

__**__

Forty minutes later, a familiar black and grey 1926 Bentley pulled into a parking spot it had not occupied for any of the past nine years. She looked happy to be back, her owner, when he unfolded his long legs and straightened his suit jacket, didn’t seem quite so sure. Crowley only paused a moment though, pushing his glasses firmly into place before taking a breath and eating up the pavement with his determined strides, crashing open the familiar wooden doors and yelling, “Angel!” in the most obnoxious manner possible.

Aziraphale didn’t seem phased, however. He bustled into the main body of the shop, dressed in the familiar waistcoat attire that Crowley so missed when he was done up as Brother Francis. “My dear!” he _beamed_ Crowley’s way, there was no other word for it. “How wonderful to see you! I’m so glad that you worked out my secret message,” he waggled his eyes at that, obviously thinking he looked a little like James Bond, when really he just looked like Aziraphale waggling his eyes suggestively.

“Pah,” Crowley swaggered past him, plopping himself into the familiar sofa and holding up the bottle of Beaujolais he’d brought along. “Not very secret, angel, I reckon even Warlock could have worked it out, given half a chance.”

Aziraphale’s face dropped, and Crowley’s insides squirmed, and he wished he could have kept his mouth closed sometimes. “Quite,” the angel took the Beaujolais though, and tucked it under his arm, suddenly looking as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

“In fact,” Crowley leant forward and dropped his feet to the floor. “I’ve been meaning to mention to you about Warlock. Don’t you feel that, by now, he should be-”

“Ah, ah, ah…” Aziraphale moved closer and pressed a finger to Crowley’s lips, effectively silencing him by almost making him swallow his tongue. “No _shop_ -talk tonight my dear. We’re both off the clock, yes?”

Off the clock? Crowley could only wish that they were _ever_ really off the clock, but Aziraphale’s smile was back, and Crowley could only stare at him as he removed his finger, leaving a pleasant tingling in its place, and wandered into the kitchenette to open the wine.

The evening slid into familiar patterns from years gone by, wine and aimless musing, more wine and Crowley’s relationship with straight lines became even more tenuous than usual, Aziraphale’s too as he sat back in his wing-back seat, his legs stretched out in front of him, fingers lax around his glass as he watched Crowley’s sprawl spread across the sofa.

“Hadrian was furious, though wasn’t he?” Crowley felt his smile spread at the memory. “I thought he was going to have you thrown in the sea.” He could picture the wide grey peaks of the waves like it was yesterday, and Aziraphale’s outraged expression as he stood there, under Hadrian’s glare, obviously thinking of how he was supposed to explain this one to Gabriel.

“You would never have allowed it, my dear,” Aziraphale’s response was mild, fond, and brought Crowley’s eyes back to him where he found himself pinned under that intense blue stare. “Would you?”

Crowley’s smile wavered, and that millennia-old pain awoke behind his ribs once more. He wouldn’t have, of course not. The pattern of their shared existence.

“You’ve always been so good to me.”

A shiver went down Crowley’s spine at the words. “’M not _good_.”

Aziraphale watched him. Saw him. _Knew_ him. Why did that frighten Crowley so much? And why did it make the angel look so _sad_?

Aziraphale smiled at him though, still so sad, still so… what was it that Crowley just couldn’t pin down? He’d never been good at this _emotion_ shit. And then the angel stood, carefully placing his wine glass down on the bureau at his side before tugging his waistcoat down and determinedly facing Crowley head-on. “I’ve missed you,” the admission felt as it Aziraphale were dragging it, unwilling, from the depths of his soul.

“Pah,” Crowley was uneasy, wrong-footed, “You see me every day.”

Blue eyes narrowed as they appraised him. “No. I don’t. I barely see you at all.”

Again, Crowley shivered.

Aziraphale seemed to draw himself up, make a decision, and his hand extended outward, “Come to bed with me, dearest,” he whispered and this time the shiver couldn’t be hidden. “I _miss_ you.”

_You miss the fucking_. Crowley wanted to hang on to that thought, hold it, like a shield across his chest but it wouldn’t keep still for him. Instead, it scuttled around, skipping through his grasping fingers, dangling dangerous, painful ideas right in front of his eyes. Right in front of his stupid, far-too-human, heart.

“Crowley… _please_ …”

And that was him done for, of course it was, and didn’t the angel _know_ that? Isn’t that why he said it? Just like that? Wasn’t that why he’d brought up that business with Hadrian in the first place? He was a bastard all right. And Crowley was a push over. How had they survived in their respective positions as long as they had?

Before he’d even considered, Crowley was on his feet, taking the proffered hand and following Aziraphale back towards the stairs at the rear of the shop.

Precisely one hour later, he was coming, the angel plastered across his back, buried inside him, stroking him through his release as Crowley himself screwed his eyes closed against the warmth he could feel amassing behind his lids.

Another twenty minutes found the little room silent and still. Aziraphale, who generally didn’t sleep, was indulging, two arms and one leg wrapped around Crowley’s body. His groin pressed into Crowley’s backside, his face in the crook of a neck. Crowley, who did sleep, couldn’t. Instead he lay on his side, Aziraphale wrapped around him, and traced the patterns of the moonlight through the opened curtains, watching as they slipped across the tiles of Soho, desperately trying to ignore the searing pain in his chest, the thoughts of what he would never have, as tears traced silvery tracks down his cheeks.


	16. Mayfair, 2018

Mayfair, a Saturday in August in 2018

(One Day Before the End of the World)

They hadn’t made it into Crowley’s sparse and functional living room with its views across the Houses of Parliament before opening the wine. Again. They’d already had a bottle on a bench in Tadfield. And another on the bus. Now they had one each as they sprawled on the cold floor of Crowley’s hallway, shoulder to shoulder, propping each other up, their backs to the wall.

Literally.

“They will come for us.”

They hadn’t really spoken on the drive back. Crowley was sure that Aziraphale was reeling at the way he’d flagrantly defined Heaven’s will (God’s will?) whilst he himself was finding it hard to move past the flames that continued to lick around the edges of his mind, devouring his Bentley, devouring his angel. Defying Satan was hard to worry about when he couldn’t shift his thoughts away from what he’d lost, what he’d almost lost and what he still had to lose.

“They will come for us.”

_What he still had to lose._

Hell would destroy him, eventually, probably, after they forced him to endure a few millennia of torture for their own amusement first. That frightened Crowley, of course it did, no regular, run-of-the-mill demon enjoyed pain when it was directed their way, and, of course, Crowley was absolutely no regular, run-of-the-mill demon. But at this exact moment in this stark hallway in the poshest part of Mayfair, there wasn’t actually enough room in his head for fear for himself, not when half of his mind remained engulfed in fire whilst the other was desperately hyperventilating at the thought that Heaven _would also destroy Aziraphale_.

“They will come for us.”

Aziraphale had only said it the once, but it seemed to be stuck on a loop in Crowley’s head. Aziraphale’s too it appeared, since he knew exactly what Crowley’s eventual, and far from useful, reply pertained to. “Yeah.”

He couldn’t let them take Aziraphale.

“What do you think they will do?”

Crowley blew out a long breath, horrified to hear how it tremored. They would look to destroy Aziraphale, completely, and there was only one way to do that. But Crowley couldn’t bring himself to say the word, not when that was all there was in his head, the crackling, the popping, shattering glass and rustling pages... He jumped as the sound of ancient beams, cracking in the flames, echoed through his memories, couldn’t help cringing forward as he remembered how the upper floors had come down on him, how he’d caught a glimpse of Aziraphale’s bed as it burned, how he’d screamed and yelled, daring the flames to burn him, the rafters to crush him... They hadn’t though, they’d left him untouched, being of fire and chaos that he was. And that was okay, because it _hadn’t_ been the End of the World and Aziraphale had come back to him. But would he be so lucky again?

A hand slid into his, cool fingers not seeming to mind the gritty soot that clung to every part of him, and squeezed, pulling him from the inferno and back to their last night on Earth. “Holy water,” Aziraphale was watching him, his own eyes wide in fear, “Is that what you think? You think they’ll use that?”

Crowley forced his fingers not to tremble as he used his free hand to lift the bottle to his lips. “I suppose so. But not right away. Not when there are so many other fun _options_ to try first.”

He felt Aziraphale’s shudder, felt the fingers tighten on his own. 

“I can’t help but think that you were right, though, dear.”

He looked up, couldn’t remember offering anything and Aziraphale obviously saw his confusion, squeezed his fingers again and, despite it all, Crowley thought that he liked that casual familiarity. Shame it was all set to come to an end.

“What you said as we got on the bus,” Aziraphale prompted. “About Agnes, and her prophecy. I feel that it _has_ to be the key to us surviving this.”

Crowley agreed, and he did have an idea what Agnes was suggesting they do, but the stakes were too high to attempt it both ways – an eternity of torture for his angel was a risk that Crowley would never accept.

The figure at his side shifted, leaned forward a little and Crowley glanced across to find himself the subject of Aziraphale’s most penetrating stare, the one that made him feel as if the angel could see right through to the core of his very-tainted soul. He looked away.

“You know what she meant,” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet, clouded. “But you’re not telling.”

Crowley stared at the floor.

“You’re frightened.”

Crowley flushed red.

“But not for yourself. You _never_ give due regard to yourself…” he leaned closer, peered more closely still into Crowley’s face and Crowley, reflexively, pushed his glasses a little more firmly up his nose. “No, dear, please don’t hide from me, not _now_.” He reached up, took the shades away and Crowley determinedly fixed his eyes on the cold tiles between his legs as Aziraphale stared at him and thought and then, “Crowley, _dearest_ , please look at me.”

Crowley fought, he did, but when did he ever have any option but to do anything that Aziraphale ever wanted from him? Ever? He looked up, hiding, as much as he possibly could, behind drawn brows and a scowl and Aziraphale considered him, _scrutinised_ him.

“You can’t do this to me now,” his words were low, sincere, and yes, Crowley could hear the fear in them too. “We have been in this together since the very start, Crowley, since the dawn of human time. Everything either of us has ever done has always impacted on the other, has always revolved around the other. Whatever you are planning at this late juncture, whatever solo venture, I will not have it, do you understand me?”

Crowley willed his expression blank.

“If this is to be our last stand, then so be it, but if we have to go out, then we do it _together_ , just like we started. Crowley? Dearest? Do you understand how important this is to me?”

He stopped then, let it all hang, let the pressure on Crowley build. He’d always, _always_ , been a master manipulator where Crowley was concerned.

“I won’t risk you,” Crowley eventually offered. “You must know that I can’t risk you to save myself.”

Aziraphale’s clever mind whirled into action. “And yet you would expect me to risk you for my continued existence?”

Slitted eyes slid back to the floor.

“And how would you rate my quality of life after that point, dear? After losing you? After letting you be destroyed to save me? When I have laboured so hard over all these years just to keep you safe? You think that I would skip happily off into the sunset? Help myself to a nice Chablis and a plate of seafood?” Aziraphale’s voice had been rising with every word of his speech, a divine crackle edging his words, and, with an obvious effort, Crowley felt him wind it all down again, force himself to be quieter. Gentle. “A little insensitive don’t you think, my dear? A little selfish?”

“Of course I’m selfish, I’m a demon,” it was an automatic response, expected.

“We both know that’s not true.”

Crowley sighed and closed his eyes, preferring the dancing images of the flames obliterating everything Aziraphale held dear, to the angel’s imploring expression right now. “They won’t just destroy you, though,” his tone was wretched, defeated. “They will torture you for thousands of years. _Torture you_ , Aziraphale. Don’t you see that? Don’t you get it? How can I sign you up for _that_?”

And he’d said too much, of course he had, him and his damn mouth, always running away from him.

“You think we should swap corporations…” Aziraphale was almost talking to himself. “Of course. _Choose your faces_. Of course… But that would only work if our punishments would be holy water and Hellfire, but you think… Crowley,” the fingers wrapped around his tightened. “Crowley, dear, why do you think they will torture you and not just get you out of the way?”

Shrugging, Crowley lifted his head and let his eyes settle on Aziraphale’s earnest face. “They said. More or less. You remember all those reports I wrote on the Spanish Inquisition, the CIA? Well, they’re dying to try them out – on me.”

Aziraphale drew back a little, his eyes wide in horror.

“You see?” Crowley was savagely pleased at that reaction. “And now you do you understand why we _cannot_ do this?”

“You expect _me_ to now allow _you_ to walk into that fate, my dear?”

Crowley blew out a frustrated noise, “But it’s _my_ fate, angel! Of course I do! It’s what you sign up for when you Fall!”

“You didn’t _sign up_ for anything, Crowley, don’t be ridiculous. And you didn’t deserve to Fall either, we both know that. Now, let me think about this…”

He sat back against the wall, the bottle grasped in both hands, Crowley’s fingers abandoned, his brow creased in thought and Crowley stared at him, the ‘ _you didn’t deserve to Fall either, we both know that_ ’ buzzing around his head like a bee on speed. What the Hell? What the Hell was that? What on Earth had happened to the ‘ _we may have both started off as angels, but you are Fallen_ ’ line that Aziraphale had spouted _forever_?

“You’re wrong.”

Aziraphale’s pronouncement startled him back to the present and he blinked up to see the angel leaning over him again, his eyes wide, his expression nothing less than excited. Crowley’s heart started thumping, hard in his chest.

“You’re wrong though, dearest, don’t you see that?”

Crowley just stared.

“They won’t torture you for endless years, they won’t risk that. What if you got away? What if you started to become some kind of figure-head? Some kind of martyr? What if you started drawing others to your ‘cause’? Think of the trouble that would start! Think of the problems for the next Armageddon if there are a whole bunch of… of… Crowley-ites in Hell who refuse to fight in your name!”

“A bunch of _whats_?”

“They won’t risk it,” Aziraphale was obviously convinced. “They won’t.”

They sat. Crowley thought. Aziraphale was wrong, wasn’t he? What had Ligur said to him? But then, Ligur was gone, and Hastur did always appreciate a touch of irony… maybe it would be holy water and then… Aziraphale would be safe… But, “I still don’t want you going anywhere near Hell,” and he didn’t. Aziraphale in Hell? Inconceivable.

“And I don’t want you anywhere hear Heaven. Don’t think it hasn’t escaped my thinking what they would do to you if they realised who you were. But what choice do we have? And anyway – I’m _certain_ that Agnes has set out to save us here.”

Crowley blinked at him, “What do you mean, _what they would do to me_?”

Aziraphale’s face crumpled and he leaned in, taking Crowley’s hand in his own again, his blue eyes swimming in moisture. “Dear boy, nothing will despatch an angel save for Hellfire. But a _demon_ … do you know how many holy relics there are in Heaven? Not just holy water, holy swords, holy daggers, holy spears… makes you wonder what they needed them all for… and any one of which would obliterate you in a moment!” He blinked, and Crowley was hypnotised by the shimmering shades of blue. “I _can’t_ lose you either, but this will work, I’m sure of it.”

They stared at each other, wine forgotten.

“I can’t make you do this, Crowley,” he could, they both knew that he absolutely could. “And if you don’t want to, I’ll run with you, to Alpha Centauri, anywhere you want to go,” he let out a fluttery little smile. “But this is our best chance, I absolutely believe it. And then, when we don’t die, they’ll be wary of us, they’ll leave us alone and we can stay here, do what we’ve always done. Just live a bit. If you like.”

Crowley worried at his lower lip, “It’s risky.”

“Riskier than doing nothing? Waiting for them to come for us? Riskier than fleeing to the stars? Letting our corporeal bodies die around us?”

Rubbing at his pounding head, Crowley stared at Aziraphale’s leg and thought. _Do what we’ve always done,_ did he want that? Hell, yes. More than floating around in deep space in his more _original_ state? Yes. Absolutely, yes. But still… the second he started trying to imagine Aziraphale in _Hell_ , his mind just wouldn’t let him.

“It’s okay,” one of Aziraphale’s hands gripped his tightly, the other was now in his hair, cradling the back of his head, no doubt feeling all the grit and soot buried there. “I know it’s scary, Crowley, but it will be alright, I can just tell.”

“If they work out what we’re doing…”

“They won’t, of course they won’t. Do you think Gabriel knows me as well as you do? Or Hastur knows you as well as I? No, dear, this will work. _This will work._ Do you believe me?”

Crowley couldn’t speak, the fear was too strong, far too strong, but Aziraphale was right, no one knew them like they knew each other, and Agnes had been spot-on for absolutely everything else so far… He nodded, eyes still on the tweed of Aziraphale’s trousers and felt the angel’s long exhale as it ruffled his hair. “Are you tired? Dearest, you look exhausted, I know how stopping time takes it out of you, and keeping your car going…” There was a sharp twist of anxiety behind Crowley’s ribs. “Come on, let me run you a bath and then we’ll get some sleep. They won’t come tonight, we have that, we can switch tomorrow and it _will be alright_. Okay?”

He let himself be drawn up, led along to the bathroom where a steaming bubble bath was already waiting for him and stripped to nothing whilst Aziraphale puttered around him, picking up his clothes, calling forth a pile of fluffy towels, a plush and springy bathmat, a slate grey towelling robe. Every single part of him ached, from the soles of his feet to the pounding in his skull; it had been a shitty day, seeing the destruction of his beloved car and the loss of Aziraphale. The water was hot, the bubbles smelt of patchouli and jasmine and he felt its soothing powers the moment it touched his skin.

Carefully, hissing slightly as his aches were addressed, Crowley lowered himself into the water, sighing in relief as he leant back against the sides. It was then that he remembered Aziraphale and opened his eyes to the silence of the room, wondering if the angel had gone but no, he was still there, standing with a bundle of Crowley’s clothes in his hands and a strange expression, one that Crowley was sure he’d never seen before, on his face. He shifted self-consciously in the water and was about to offer Aziraphale a shower, a change of clothes, a cup of tea, when Aziraphale beat him to it and approached the side of the bath, pulling up the chair from the corner of the room and draping the clothing over the back of it as he sat down, the strange expression fleeing, a soft and gentle smile taking its place.

“It’s been a difficult day.”

“Shup up, angel, it’s been fine.” He closed his eyes as a gentle hand started carding through his hair, brushing it back from his face, finger tips raking across his skull, every touch easing the pounding behind his eyes.

“In that pub, when you were trying to drink away the end of the world, you said that you’d lost your best friend.”

Despite the clever fingers in his hair, Crowley scowled. “You know you’re my best friend, Aziraphale. You’re my only friend. Stop fishing for compliments.”

He heard a chuckle, then warm water was running through his hair and there was the pop of a shampoo bottle, “Shut up, Crowley,” came the fond rejoinder. “And let me wash your hair.”

Crowley doubted that there was anything left in the world that could have made him say no to that.

He felt better by the time he got into bed, and he was relieved beyond all measure when Aziraphale swapped his grubby clothes for a pair of what looked like 1950s striped flannel pyjamas. They pressed up close together, spooning as they had on the night of the booty call, and, despite everything, Crowley felt the strains of the day pulling him into sleep.

They might not have fucked that night, the night before the End of the World, but Crowley slept, Aziraphale’s arms keeping the flames at bay.

For now.


	17. Soho, 2018

Soho, a Sunday in August in 2018

(The Day the World Ends)

It had been a busy day, a busy week, and maybe that’s why Crowley felt so completely and bone suckingly tired. They’d swapped corporations, ventured into Heaven and Hell, fooled their respective bosses into leaving them alone (for how long?), dined at the Ritz and then returned back to the bookshop for more champagne and – what? What else had they returned to?

There were certain, concrete, facts that Crowley could blame his mood on – stopping time _was_ exhausting, after all, as was transporting two other beings, plus yourself, to a place outside of time and space. Fearing for your life was pretty draining too, and Crowley ought to know, with Hastur’s creative threats over the millennia, he’d certainly done enough of it. Holding his car together through the infernal fire, yeah, that would tick the box, facing down Satan, being kidnapped and dragged back to Heaven for the first time in fuck knew how long, trying _not_ to barbeque that dick Gabriel, arguing with the angel… and loss, his stomach swooped in real, acute pain, yeah, loss.

He wasn’t ready to pick it up and examine it, not really, not yet, and, he feared, maybe not ever. Losing his car had been bad enough, in all and complete honesty, that car was the only thing in the entirety of existence that Crowley knew, without a shadow of doubt, would stand with him until the end of days. _Did_ stand with him until the end of days. The car was the only thing that Crowley talked honestly to, was the thing he went to when he was just about itching out of his skin with whatever it was that drove him sometimes. It was where he fumed and raged and moped and cried, the only time he ever just let himself _be_. How could he let Aziraphale see him as damaged as he really was? How could he let the plants see him so weak? The other demons see him so pathetic? His life was laced in levels of subterfuge and only the Bentley ever got the real deal. So yes, he’d got her back, but did it erase the guilt of being unable to save her? The pain of seeing her die in front of him? The agony of leaving her behind? All of those knives were still embedded deep in his black and shrivelled heart.

And Aziraphale.

He swallowed, a sick swell of nausea running through him, sweat standing out across his shoulders, his hands curling into fists as he sat on the resurrected sofa in the bookshop that had burned. And it burned still, right at the edges of his mind, he could hear it now, crackling and popping and leaping and _devouring_. He could smell it. Feel its heat. Taste the destruction in the back of his throat. The fear he’d felt when screaming through London at one hundred and twenty miles an hour, Ligur’s molten stench in his nose, Aziraphale’s phone repeatedly unanswered… But that fear had faded into _nothing_ on rounding the corner and seeing the _flames_. Terror had gripped him. He’d burst in through the familiar doors, screaming and yelling and, with terrible certainty, had known that his angel had _gone_.

He’d have stayed where he was, really, on his knees, soaked and singed and sobbing, until either Hell or Armageddon came for him if it hadn’t been for that book. He knew what Aziraphale thought of his books, and seeing it there, almost untouched, had given him one last service he could perform for his angel. Saving a book that Aziraphale loved, had also saved him. He felt that there was an irony in there that he just couldn’t grasp.

But the fire wouldn’t leave him. The fear wouldn’t leave him. The utter and complete despair he’d felt when he’d realised he’d been all alone in the world wouldn’t leave him. And the real kicker was, that he understood that one day, one day that was always coming closer, he’d lose it all again. For good.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you”

Crowley blinked back into focus to find Aziraphale standing there in front of him, one hand on his hip, one hand clutching a dusty old copy of _Biggles Flies Again_ , and a frown on his face as he stared at Crowley’s slack expression. The angel had been funny too, since returning to the shop he’d never seen burn. He was effervescent, edgily so. Flighty and fussy, constantly on the move, thinking aloud, asking Crowley questions that he didn’t await an answer to, picking books up, putting them down, moving things, touching things, filling Crowley’s silence with a veritable barrage of noise. It was unsettling – and unlike Aziraphale.

He stared, trying to parse backwards through his memories, see if, somewhere, he’d actually listened to whatever it was that the angel had last said. It was hopeless, though, and he simply stared as Aziraphale sighed and rolled his eyes, planting his fist a little firmer onto his hip. “I _said_ ,” he repeatedly pointedly, “That even though there are a number of new additions to my stock,” he hefted the _Biggles_ in illustration, “Everything else seems to be there as well.”

Crowley stared at him, trying to ignore the licking flames for long enough to formulate a reply, but Aziraphale, it seemed, did not have that long to wait. Rolling his eyes again, he disappeared back into the stacks, leaving Crowley to sit and over-think everything and try not to start hyper-ventilating.

The feeling of having _lost_ Aziraphale wouldn’t leave him. It just wouldn’t. And Crowley knew himself well enough to realise that it probably never would. It was a bubbling panic just underneath his skin, creeping through his veins, the force of the hose slamming into his chest, knocking him to the ground, the realisation… _he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone…_ He was on his feet before he knew it.

Aziraphale was now at the back of the shop, trailing fingers over dusty spines, muttering to himself as he went, the bottle of champagne on the floor at his feet. Crowley frowned at him and moved closer, watching as those blue eyes flicked his way and started the muttering off anew, louder this time, directed Crowley’s way. “I’d rather worried that the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ hadn’t made the cut, dear boy, but it seemed that they were down here all along.” He took a side-step further along the shelving. “And there’s a whole set of _Harry Potters_ down here too, not originals, not that that would make much difference in a set, but the adult jackets, you know the ones?” again, he didn’t seem to want a reply. “At least they’re hardback though, I suppose. And, rather bizarrely, a whole shelf of Gothic romance! Can you believe that? Not really what I would imagine an eleven-year-old boy would read, but what do I know? Not that much it would seem.”

He pulled a foot stool a little closer and stepped up to pull books off a higher shelf, sliding them off, sliding them back as his mouth tumbled onwards. “There is a rather adorable first edition of _A Bear Called Paddington_ on the front desk, did you see that one?”

Crowley took a step in, the truth of him flaring, painfully in his chest, “Angel…” he couldn’t miss the anxious look that was thrown his way, or the flash of panic that ran over Aziraphale’s face.

“Ah, yes, here, look! I have been searching for this one, _Oedipus Tyrannus_ , you remember seeing that one in Athens, my dear?”

“Aziraphale, can you come down? I need to talk to you.”

Another look, pinched and troubled, but a moment six thousand years in the making had found its time at last and Crowley would not, could not, be dissuaded. “Ah, I really must go through these today, though…” Aziraphale’s eyes drifted back to the spines.

“Aziraphale.”

A guilty look was thrown Crowley’s way.

“ _Please._ ”

Aziraphale stopped. His eyes fixed on the books in front of him and Crowley waited, refusing to turn around and stare down the phantom flames that were crackling behind him, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Then there was a sigh and Aziraphale’s head dropped as he stood still and stared at the shelf in below him for a moment before stepping down and turning to Crowley, a bright smile flashing across his face as he did. “I’m wondering if you are in the mood for something a little stronger than the champers? I’m sure I have a premium bottle of Johnnie Walker out the back somewhere, or at least I did, before Adam got his hands on my-” he’d gone to step around Crowley, the bright grin firmly pressed in place, and make his way towards the back room, but Crowley’s voice, quiet, but edged in something else, stopped him.

“Angel.”

There was a pause, Aziraphale’s eyes were on his exit route, his smile, his _effervescence_ gone, his posture stiff, his tone guarded. “Crowley, my dear…”

It was clearly a warning, but a warning for what? Crowley had never been very good with warnings anyway. And all he wanted was to get this damn itching, these flames and this _fear_ , out of him for good. They stood. He waited, waited, until finally, Aziraphale’s eyes were upon him. And now, what to say? Which words to use? Where to start when there were sixty centuries of silence to address? There was so much, so many things… but in all eventuality, they all came back to the same thing.

“Aziraphale…”

The angel looked pained, “Crowley, _please_ , think-”

Crowley shook his head, “Angel, you must know – you _must –_ how in love with you I am.”

Silence.

Aziraphale was staring, fixedly, at Crowley’s shoulder as the fire around them banked higher still. Crowley realised that he hadn’t been clear enough, he needed to be clear. He ignored the swirling in his belly, took off his glasses, dropping them from numb fingers straight onto the floor and tried again. “You and I, we've danced around for so long, kept so much hidden from both our sides. But there are no sides now, angel, no sides, only choices. And I choose you. I love you.”

That was clear, that was as clear as he could ever be.

Time stopped.

Aziraphale, two deep lines etched into his forehead, continued to stare at Crowley’s shoulder.

Seconds ticked by, Crowley’s throat was dry. He watched as Aziraphale swallowed. The sickness in his own belly swirled and churned. Unwelcome tears pricked at the corner of his eyes.

_He’s thinking, that’s all, he’s thinking… he’s not saying no._

Any moment now. Any moment. Aziraphale would find the words he needed in just another moment. Of course he would, Crowley trusted him.

The silence grew between them, morphed with the flames in Crowley’s head, spewing out huge, wisping tendrils of smoke, encasing them, smothering, suffocating. Crowley's fingers curled into fists to stop them from trembling as the sickness slowly ebbed into pain.

Any moment now.

Of course Aziraphale would choose him over Heaven. Of course he would. After this morning? After the planned executions? How could he still choose Heaven after _that_?

The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked loudly through the seconds.

Aziraphale’s face was flushed. His lips were pressed together. His eyes glued to Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley felt as if he’d been stabbed. The flames roared around him. A chill crept up his legs. His sad little heart waited…

Ten more seconds passed. Crowley counted them all with the clock. 

It was too late.

Aziraphale had chosen.

Of course he’d chosen.

And that choice wasn’t Crowley.

“Right.”

Okay, so he needed to do something now, something cool and suave. Something to save himself. Instead, he swallowed, forced some moisture into his throat. Tried to stare the tears from his eyes.

“Right.”

His feet were frozen to the floor, his flayed heart spraying blood over his gaping chest cavity, the space where the Almighty’s love had been, with every wretched beat.

He shook himself. 

“Well, then.”

He stooped and picked up his glasses, sliding them back into place as he straightened up.

Then he turned.

And walked out.

Leaving the angel standing, stock still, amongst his resurrected books.


	18. Porth Wen, Wales, 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a short one, but I'm hoping to get more up either tonight or tomorrow. 
> 
> I also feel like this would be a good point to remind that there will be a happy ending to this - as difficult as that may be to envisage right now!

Porth Wen, Wales, a Sunday in August in 2018

(The Day the World Ends)

It was still light as the Bentley pulled into the car park over looking the beach, a molten sunset staining the sand orange. Crowley let the engine die, let the only sounds be the ticking of the engine as it cooled and the distant call of the ocean as it crept back in towards land. Nine-thirty p.m. Who’d have thought, as he’d awoken wrapped in Aziraphale’s embrace that very morning, that the end of the day would see him here, in the arse-end of Wales, the very edge of the world, with nothing but sea before him and a pain in his chest so fierce he could have thought he was discorporating?

He’d driven straight from the book shop, fleeing London and then just vaguely heading north and west, keeping off the motorway, driving, driving, driving, attempting the leave his pain behind as easily as he’d left the capital. The Bentley seemed none the worse for her ordeal through fire, but Crowley could smell it still, the molten fixtures and fittings, the soot and the smoke. He could hear the flames and Hastur’s screams, his own mutters of determination and his desperate cries in the shop.

_‘Aziraphale! Aziraphale, where the Heaven are you, you idiot? I can't find you!’_

He exploded out of his seat and stalked out of the car, down the rutted path and onto the sands, squinting against the last rays of the sun as they draped his black frame in blood. He was bleeding, he was bleeding to death; six thousand years of spears and daggers and, yes, flaming swords, had all left their mark and now he no longer had it in him to even try and stem the flow. 

There was no where left to run, no point in trying to fool himself any longer. Six thousand years on earth, goodness knows how many before that in Hell itself, and Crowley had always (just about) managed to hold everything together. He’d always (just about) believed that the universe would look out for him, in the end, that he’d be okay, that he’d survive with everything he needed intact. And he had. Maybe he’d relied a little too heavily on alcohol from time to time, and sleeping, and maybe there was that time in Greece he’d rather not remember, but generally, yeah, he’d looked out for himself, looked after himself. He’d survived.

But now… the pain inside him twisted and writhed and he closed his eyes against the pressure and heat.

What was he now?

He’d been created an angel, but his Mother had cast him out.

He’d been claimed a demon, but they’d tried to destroy him.

He’d wanted to be Aziraphale’s own, but Aziraphale didn’t want him.

The lies, painted onto his skin over countless nights, whirled inside him, razor edged and brutal. ‘ _My dear…’, ‘dearest…’, ‘you are beautiful…’, ‘exquisite…’, ‘Crowley, my Crowley…’, ‘I’ve missed you…’_ Lies. Every damn one of them. But Crowley had fallen for them, hadn’t he? Fallen harder than his plummet from Heaven – and how could he have left himself be so vulnerable once again?

_“And then, when we don’t die, they’ll be wary of us, they’ll leave us alone and we can stay here, do what we’ve always done. Just live a bit. If you like.”_

He had liked, but he’d been conned. How had he thought that Aziraphale would ever love a creature such as him? The angel had been intent on persuading him into the swap, that had been all. And he’d known that Crowley was going to bare all in the shop afterwards, he could see, now, how desperately he’d tried to avert the apocalypse before it happened.

_“I choose you. I love you.”_

That crushing silence.

Pain seared through his chest rippling through his flayed heart. He’d been such a fool. How was he ever going to get through this pain? How was he ever going to find the strength to _live_ through this? Especially when all he wanted was for Aziraphale to come after him, to find him and promise him yet more lies. He’d go along with them, of course he would, he was absolutely pathetic enough to be willing to live on any scraps of contact that the angel threw his way. 

The pressure of tears was building inside him, building, threatening to explode out of him. Had he ever seen a demon cry? No. Absolutely not. Why would they? He was the only one.

A wave of self-loathing ran through him and he walked forward, straight into the molten sea, chilled on his sensitive skin despite the summer months. He kept walking, ignoring the way his clothes clung to him like the heaviest of seaweeds, the way his boots filled with water and weighed him down. Eventually, he could walk no further and struck out for the horizon instead, his body buffeted by the waves, tugged by the currents, sucked by the depths.

On the cliffs above, Margaret Jones was out giving her terrier, Maxi, his last walk of the day and stopped short as she thought she saw movement in the water below. She squinted into the dark, frowning as she just about made out the dark shape of a man as he swam, determinedly, out of the bay and into the open sea beyond. Her chest tightened in concern, knowing how rough the seas could be in these parts and leaned forward for a better look. Darkness was creeping in, night was fast approaching, and the blood-red waters were sliding into hues of indigo and blue. Margaret realised that she must have been wrong though, she could see nothing now, no human swimmer, and certainly no thin black snake fleeing from hurt once again. Whistling to Maxi, she turned and headed back to her cottage and the promise of a good night’s sleep.


	19. Caernarfon Police Station, Wales, 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this! Another short one, but it's ready to go!

Caernarfon Police Station, a Tuesday in November in 2018

(Three Months After the World Ended)

Aziraphale stood in the silence of the police station, gently fingering the fine Italian fabric of the black blazer which was folded so neatly in front of him. He saw the flash of red at the collar and felt a very familiar stab of pain and regret run through him.

“Can you confirm that the black jacket belongs to Mr. Crowley as well, sir?”

Aziraphale swallowed, hard, “It does. Yes. Everything here. Thank you.” The atmosphere in the room was awkward and heavy.

“I see, thank you. And – I realise that this is hard for you –” Aziraphale looked up at the young sergeant who was, ever so gently, questioning him, and pushed out a smile of his own.

“It’s quite all right,” he bit back the _dear boy_ , “I know you are simply doing your job, here.” Steven Griffin. Thirty-two. Married, divorced, two little boys. Hating every moment of working with missing people and death and desolation. Aziraphale felt for him.

Sergeant Griffin nodded and pushed on. “Was there anything strange about Mr. Crowley the last time that you saw him? Was he feeling particularly emotional in anyway at all?”

Aziraphale shook his head, unable to put the lie into words. “We’d had lunch at the Ritz,” that at least had been true. “And he’d had a heavy week with work, I knew he was tired, but I never expected this.” And was that a lie? Problem was, Aziraphale had told so many recently that he was losing track of what was actually true…

“You say he left your bookshop at around 5pm?”

“That’s correct, yes.”

“Well, he was caught on CCTV crossing the Menai Suspension Bridge at 9.04pm the same day. The car was found parked near the beach at Porth Wen the next morning. It wasn’t locked up. In fact the driver’s door was wide open, and…” he swallowed and Aziraphale looked up into his ashen face, “A local resident did later report that she thought she’d seen a man swimming out of the bay that Sunday night, at around 9.45pm.”

Aziraphale’s heart tightened. “Ah.”

“And the clothing was washed up onto the beach over the next few days.”

“I see.”

They slid into silence, Aziraphale now fingering the ridiculously expensive watch that was, remarkably, still keeping perfect time.

“I’m so sorry, sir.”

“Absolutely. Thank you. Yes,” Aziraphale had never felt so lost before.

“Would you like someone to talk with? Before you leave?”

He frowned, “Someone to talk-” and then it struck him, a grief advisor, someone to signpost him to institutions which would help him through his trauma. And they existed, did they? Charities that supported angels who had broken the heart of their demon-significant-other, who then turned into a snake and fled the country rather than allow said angel to catch up with him and desperately try to make things even a tiny bit better? No, he doubted that there was such an organisation, and even if there was, would he be deserving of their help? He thought not. “No, thank you. I’m fine. Really.”

Twenty minutes later, he’d signed everything he’d needed to sign and was carefully edging the nose of the Bentley out of the gates of the police compound and on the road up towards Porth Wen.


	20. Mason Island, Republic of Ireland, 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three posts in a day????? I know, I can't believe it either! And this post is actually a normal post length! Still with POV Aziraphale here... he's launching his defence...

Mason Island, Republic of Ireland, a Saturday in February, 2019

(Six Months After the World Ended)

Aziraphale staggered slightly as he materialised, glancing around in a furtive fashion as he tried not to look as if he had simply miracled his way across the waters and onto the windswept beach that edged this northern part of the island. He seemed to have got away with it though, again, which was fortunate as he really wasn’t in the mood for playing with the memories of any more mortals this week.

Hefting his backpack into a more comfortable position across his shoulder blades, Aziraphale stood and slowly rotated, scanning the parts of the island he could see, and then closing his eyes and feeling across those that he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through his entire corporation as he opened his eyes once more, he was close, he could absolutely tell that he was close. But then, this would be the twentieth island he’d visited in almost as many days and his feeling of Crowley had been strong in them all. There was no point in getting his hopes up, no point in letting himself get all excited, it was just as it had been in Greece all of those years ago, Crowley was _somewhere_ , and Aziraphale would search _everywhere_ until he found him.

He headed inland. It wasn’t a large island, less than a kilometre in length and barely half a kilometre in width. It wouldn’t take him long to search this one, although all the derelict cottages, reminders of lives gone by, would need to be examined. Still, he should be done in a couple of hours which meant that he would be able to- He stopped as he reached the rutted old road which ran down the island like a gnarly spine and stared, heart thumping in his chest, at the jagged west coast, the splashing sea spray visible even from his distance. His feet started walking again, all on their own, even as his eyes tried to clarify what it was that he could actually see.

Was that a figure? He was sure it was a figure, sitting on rocks outside one of the tumbledown cottages, darkly clothed, perfectly still, hair whipping in the wind, red hair? Was it? Was Aziraphale’s imagination just playing with him? He quickened his steps.

Oh. Definite red hair. He’d know that slight figure anywhere, but… he was so still, so quiet, it was almost alien in Crowley. Memories of finding Crowley in another run-down cottage, at the edge of a warmer and bluer sea niggled painfully at the back of his mind. No, he reassured himself, he wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. Not again…

It was difficult not to run, not to shout, but Aziraphale knew Crowley and knew how skittish he could be when he was troubled. And of course he was troubled now, wasn’t he? Aziraphale had well and truly seen to that.

He cut off the road, the turf soft and springy under his feet and then back onto a gravel path leading right up to the cottage, right up to the solitary figure sitting so still in nothing but black t-shirt and jeans, bare feet, and, oh, thank all that was still holy, it _was_ him.

“Crowley…” he dropped to his knees, knowing that something was wrong but unable to pinpoint exactly what it was. “Crowley?”

There was no response. Crowley’s eyes were open, no glasses hiding them from the empty island, but they were _blank_ , no movement in the usually so responsive pupils, no white to be seen anywhere which meant that Crowley was expanding no effort at all in even attempting to make them more human. His skin was white, grey or even blue in places, but unearthly pale, dreadfully so. And he was so still, so incredibly still. Aziraphale’s own heart was pounding away in terror, the only mantra he could cling to was _, no, no, no, not now, please…_ He forced himself to calm down, forced his own heart and breathing to pause, tuned out the waves and the wind and the gulls and listened and… _oh, thank you Lord_ , there was the beating of a heart that Crowley didn’t even need, a heart that Aziraphale had broken, slow and sluggish, _painfully_ slow, but it was there, and that was all that Aziraphale needed right then.

“Crowley?” he tried again, without the slightest flicker of anything in those eyes and he reached out, tugging his glove off his hand and gently resting his fingers on the white skin of Crowley’s forearm, wincing at the chill he felt. “Oh, my dear,” he blinked away tears from his eyes, his stomach crawling in guilt. “I’m so, so sorry.”

__**__

It was easy to leave the island, Crowley wrapped up in a coat that could have been mistaken for a sleeping bag, but far harder to pass unnoticed once they were back on the mainland. Aziraphale had been travelling the Irish coasts in a 1957 VW Camper, pale blue and white, which he had fitted out himself to his own exacting specifications. The floor was covered in blue and white tiles, the vinyl seating reminiscent of an American ‘50s diner. There was a wood burning stove in one corner, a paraffin hob attached to one of the doors, a rack of essentials to the other. There was a fridge under one seat, a pull-down table under the window, blue and white checked blinds on all the windows and book shelves racked into the back. It was all Aziraphale had needed on his road trip and, had he not been so absolutely, _desperately_ terrified for Crowley’s safety, he would have quite enjoyed all the pootling about.

As much as he loved his camper van (he’d named her Bessie, but never yet spoken that out loud) Crowley needed more than that just now. Far more than that.

There were three or four other cars parked in the mainland carpark where Aziraphale had left Bessie, and there was no way that he could stroll past the couple picnicking and the children playing with their dog carrying a comatose demon in his arms without drawing the kind of attention he could do without. He was also wary of over-doing the miracles as well. Whilst he’d had no contact with Heaven since the events of the previous summer, he did wonder if they were still monitoring him, still liaising with Hell, and the last thing he wanted to do was to tip them off _down there_ as to how vulnerable Crowley was in his current state.

It was a dilemma, one he solved by gently persuading a pod of nearby dolphins to surface just off the beach, drawing enough attention to allow him to sneak through unnoticed, and gently secure Crowley into Bessie’s passenger seat. He set off immediately, heading towards Dublin and a ferry to Liverpool, but then, looking at Crowley, lolling, pale and drawn, with his eyes staring at nothing, Aziraphale knew that that was a jump too far for the moment.

The hotel appeared with what seemed perfect serendipity. Aziraphale and Bessie turned the corner, and there it was, solid-stoned and white-washed and so welcome that the angel felt his throat close in gratitude. There was nothing he could do other than befuddle the poor lady at the desk. He was strong enough to man-handle Crowley in alongside him, but there was nothing he could do to make him look any more corpse-like other than mess with the head of yet another human.

“Good afternoon,” he smiled brightly, Crowley clamped to his side. “Ah, I have reservation, Mr. Fell, a suite, I believe…” Aziraphale watched closely as the Receptionist’s eyes, Siobhan, her name badge read, slid over to Crowley and widened slightly in alarm, then relaxed, slipping back into their usual, welcoming demeanour. Aziraphale let out a tiny sigh of relief.

“Of course, Mr Fell, hold on one moment here… having a bit of a holiday, are you?”

Aziraphale, feeling the weight of Crowley tugging at him, forced out the brightest smile he possibly could. “We are, my dear, yes. Lovely, _lovely_ part of the world you have here.”

Siobhan beamed, “Well, we like to think so. Here we are, Lake View Suite, was that the one?”

Fixing his smile in place, Aziraphale nodded.

“Okay then, if you would like to fill in this form.”

A single sheet of expensive, cream paper was slid his way and Aziraphale cringed as he realised that he would not be able to fill any of it in and still manage to hold Crowley upright at the same time. There was simply nothing else for it. “Already done, my dear,” he offered brightly. “If we could just have our key?”

“Absolutely,” Siobhan’s confusion regarding the registration form slipped away and she was back to typing at her computer. “Would you gentlemen like a morning paper?”

Despite his iron-like grip, Crowley was starting to side with gravity and slip down against Aziraphale’s side and he wasn’t about to let him end up on the floor. “No, thank you.”

“A dinner reservation?”

“Ah, no.”

“A wake-up call?”

“Oh, _bother_!” at that, Aziraphale, Crowley and the luggage (which, up until that point, had still been residing inside Bessie) found themselves in the sitting area of a very nice suite with a huge bed, an en-suite that promised to be rather swish, a Juliet balcony with a view out over a lovely lake and… a fireplace. Resigning himself to racking up yet more ‘frivolous’ miracles, Aziraphale lit the fire and lifted the unresponsive demon into his arms as he stepped towards the bed.

Apart from the coat that Aziraphale had miracled up for him, Crowley was wearing a disturbing lack of clothing. Since their semi-permanent move to Northern Europe, he’d always favoured layers, in fact, Aziraphale often wondered if he hadn’t been the one who had invented fashionable layering. An undershirt, a dress shirt, waist coat, jacket, some kind of scarf-thing, Crowley had always complained of being cold, and Crowley made trying to keep warm into a fashion statement. But now, only three items, one, a thin and ratty t-shirt, two, a pair of fitted, jersey shorts, and three, the ubiquitous skinny jeans. Even his feet were bare, almost blue with the cold, but no snakeskin boots anywhere. (With a lurch, Aziraphale remembered the single water-damaged boot he’d been presented with at the police station back in Wales…) It was almost as if he’d been trying to get as cold as possible.

It meant there was less to strip though; Aziraphale simply peeled off the icy jeans and charmed the duvet to lie across him. He spent a few moments carefully tucking the edges in and around the long, thin body, then, as the events of the day started to catch up with him, sat heavily on the stool in front of the dressing table and just stared.

Crowley’s skin was almost as white as the sheets he lay in, his hair, that incredible wine-red that Aziraphale had never seen replicated in a human, a stark splash of colour. He was so still, though, and his eyes remained open, empty and staring and so, so unlike Crowley that Aziraphale could barely stand to look. He checked again, listened for that slow, feeble heart-beat, the only thing that reassured him that Hell had not taken him back again.

Oh, Lord, what a mess this was. Aziraphale rubbed at his brow and realised that his fingers were shaking. What a complete and utter mess. Yes, he’d found him again, six months of searching and fretting and cold, hard _fear_ , but what had he found? What had Crowley done to himself this time? And surely, after everything they’d gone through together, why had he just run off like that? Why hadn’t he waited? Why hadn’t he given Aziraphale a chance to explain everything?

Aziraphale scrubbed, frustratedly at his eyes – but that wasn’t fair, was it? That wasn’t right. Crowley had waited and waited and _waited_ for the right moment, and still Aziraphale hadn’t been ready for him. No wonder the poor dear ran, no wonder he’d found yet another way to experience oblivion from eternity.

Rising, the angel cautiously approached the bed and perched on the side, forcing himself to look into the flat and empty eyes, searching desperately for a sign that his friend in there. He let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry,” was there ever enough times he could say that? “My dear, I am so very sorry that I didn’t do better by you.” There was no response, had Aziraphale expected one? He gripped his fingers together in his lap and pushed on. “You were so brave, as always, dear, always the brave one of us both, always unflinching.” Aziraphale let out a sad little smile. “You just caught me out, that was all. You know I’m not _spontaneous_ ,” he shook his head, frustration clear in his expression, “You know how I have to ponder and weigh and deliberate over _everything_ – I realise it’s a failing, one of many, I suppose – but, well, you caught me by surprise and that’s the only defence I have.”

It was a poor one, even to Aziraphale’s ears it was poor, but it was _true_. They had returned to the bookshop and Aziraphale had started to unravel, everything piling up on his shoulders, everything starting to press too firmly on his chest. Defying Heaven _had_ been hard, it had gone against every single fibre of his being, made him feel like he was being diced up and remade into something completely new, and absolutely not in a good way. Hearing Crowley in that bar as well, he hadn’t been able to see him, not properly, just the odd, swimming image, but it was enough to know that the demon was completely drunk and so _upset_. Aziraphale could tell that he’d given up and that had terrified him, a Crowley without hope was a bleak and dangerous thing. They had been on such a tight time-scale though, that he’d barely allowed himself to recognise it at the time, but afterwards it had circled around and around in his head, the fear of what Crowley _might have done_ had Aziraphale not found him, almost enough to take his breath.

Then, of course, there had been the trip into Hell, seeing for the first time what it had really been like for Crowley for all those millennia, every time he breezily popped down for a meeting or to answer a summons. Yes, Aziraphale had realised that it was not the demon’s favourite place to be, but he had never realised how absolutely soul-suckingly horrific it was. And then there was that bath… that casual circus they had put together to end Crowley’s entire existence. Crowley wasn’t there, of course, he was up in Heaven dealing with the idiots there, but Aziraphale had still been so terrified for him. He couldn’t help imagining his kind and _good_ demon down there, trying to brazen it all out, trying to go out with some dignity and bite, and all the time being so absolutely, unequivocally, _frightened._

The pressure of all of it made him anxious and twitchy and honestly feeling as if he were going to fall apart at any moment.

And then Crowley had been odd. His own good mood had dissolved as they had walked back from the Ritz, he’d become quiet and withdrawn and Aziraphale had _known_ he’d wanted to say something huge and existence altering – something that Aziraphale wired and taut as he was – would be completely unable to cope with.

He’d not known _what_ Crowley was going to admit to, though. Had he known that Crowley loved him? Well, yes, of course he had, he’d been able to feel it for hundreds of years. But, had he known that Crowley was _in love_ with him, which, as Aziraphale knew, was so very, very different? No. He hadn’t. He’d wondered sometimes, hoped… but he’d had no real proof, nothing lasting, nothing he could rely on. He’d honestly, honestly not _known_ , not expected and the revelation had rocked him to the very seat of his soul. He’d believed it, he knew that Crowley wouldn’t, _didn’t_ , lie to him, not now, and it was so huge, a truth that eclipsed all others, that it threw a completely different perspective on every moment of their lives together.

It also threw a dark shadow over their future – over their safety. They were the only ones like this, the only ones _ever_. This was something _immense_ , they needed to be careful. And, of course, Aziraphale had just frozen, like the stupid, fussy, _ridiculous_ angel he was, he’d frozen solid and let Crowley think he wasn’t loved back again, that Aziraphale wasn’t _in-love_ back again.

By the time he’d returned to rational thought, Crowley had _gone,_ and it had taken these six months to find him again. But was it enough?

He blinked his eyes clear, knew that he had no right to be sitting and feeling sorry for himself when Crowley was in this state of goodness-knew-what. He reached out a tentative finger, just wanting to touch, just a tiny bit and, like the day they stood and looked over the Hudson together, recoiled almost immediately – Crowley hadn’t warmed up even the tiniest amount.

_‘I’m always cold.’_

The words from that day returned as well, now, as was the case for everything, with new meaning. At the time, Aziraphale had thought it ridiculous, yes, he knew that Crowley chilled easily in cooler climates, but he wasn’t _always_ cold. Aziraphale had lain with Crowley countless times over the years and had seen him sweating and writhing, had _felt_ his heat more intimately than he ever would have imagined, he _knew_ that Crowley wasn’t always cold. But now, well, he was starting to think that the words had meant something very different from the obvious. And why hadn’t he realised that would have been the case, knowing Crowley as he did?

He didn’t think anymore, too many chances had already gone to waste as Aziraphale crawled, ponderously, through life. Now was the time for action – he wasn’t going to risk losing any more than they already had. He stripped off down to his under shirt and shorts and slid under the covers, shuffling over to Crowley’s side. Carefully, he tipped him up onto a hip and fit himself into the line at his back, plastering himself against the porcelain-cold skin, spooning as they had on the rarest and most lovely of nights together. Then, with his eyes on the dancing flames of the fire and his hand pressed flat over a demon’s heart, he settled down to wait.


	21. Maam Cross, Republic of Ireland, 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not particularly thrilled with this section, but all my fiddling around with it seems to be making it worse and not better so it's getting a post anyway :/

Maam Cross, Republic of Ireland, a Monday in February, 2019

(Six Months After the World Ended)

Crowley came back to awareness slowly, the heat softly, softly creeping through his flesh, seeping into his bones, waking up his organs and senses. At first, it was easy to pass it all off as a dream. After all, he’d never really fully embraced the state of torpor before (he’d always been too concerned about whether he’d ever wake up again) so he wasn’t entirely sure what it entailed. And the ‘dream’ was of fire, the dancing flames, the crackling voices, the sudden pops, so, yeah, perfectly viable dream (nightmare) material right there. It was only as he drifted closer and closer to reality that he started to recognise that maybe those flames were a little too real to be dream-flames, that the crackling was a little too sharp, the smoke a little too vicious in his nose.

He finally awoke with a violent start, finding himself not on the island sanctuary he’d fled to, and, even worse than that, _restrained_ somehow, wrapped up and tangled and _trapped_ , even as the flames filled his entire vision. He exploded, panic surging through his veins, his heart going from almost rest to tachycardia in a moment. He lashed out with all of his limbs, an elbow and a heel connecting solidly with something soft and warm behind him even as his other arm found freedom and ripped his binding constraints away. He hit the floor on his knees, instantly staggering to his feet and lurching forward, unsteady, hearing another heavy _thump_ behind him which super-charged his flight system into life.

His limbs, never the best behaved at any time, refused to obey. They’d been inactive for too long, their blood-flow slowed, their muscles atrophying – Crowley might not be a human, but his body certainly thought it was. He stumbled, finding the flames closer than he’d imagined, and had just enough time to order his too-human body not to burn, before he crashed head-long into them, a terrified shout of, “Crowley!” sounding out behind him.

The flames didn’t take, licking gently over his skin as ordered rather than melting it away, but it was disconcerting to find himself in the midst of such heat, such _memories_ , until, with a helpful burst of adrenaline, he managed to shove himself backwards with enough force to see him collide with the front of a cream brocade two seater sofa, which, up until that moment had simply been enjoying basking in front of the Edwardian-style fireplace.

And there he stopped, gasping with shock and exertion, his treacherous limbs shaking, his head swimming as his brain desperately tried to work out where in Hell’s name he actually was. He pushed back against the sofa, taking comfort in the solid presence behind him and curled his knees up to his chest, drawing them closer with his arms, hauling everything in, pulling it tightly together, desperately trying to ease the trembling which was threatening to shake him apart. The only thought in his head, _What the fuck? What the fuck? What the actual fuckity fuck is this?_

Until: “Crowley?” and his hammering heart squeezed in complete anguish at that tremulously spoken word. _Of course. Of_ fucking _course._

Footsteps were coming close, timid, uncertain, but definitely coming closer and Crowley was absolutely not ready for that. “Stop.” He didn’t lift his head from his knees, but his voice carried anyway, supported as it was by the hand, palm out, he held up in front of him like a talisman.

The footsteps stopped.

Crowley’s pulse was still hammering in his ears, his limbs still vibrating. He curled back in on himself and concentrated on breathing through it all, trying to get a grip on the stupid human hormones that were betraying him so badly.

He heard the angel slide down to the carpet though, a few feet to Crowley’s left, he could feel the slight tingling on his bare limbs that warned him of the angelic presence. _Thanks for that, bit fucking late though…_

Minutes swam by. The fire cracked and spit, sounding affronted by its run-in with a demon. Aziraphale was motionless, a silent, divine statue. And Crowley just breathed, forcing calm through his thundering veins, knowing he was going to need it, knowing that the angel wouldn’t stay quiet for long, knowing that whatever was coming, he wasn’t going to like it.

“Crowley, my dear, I-”

“Why couldn’t you just _leave me be_?” Crowley was still talking to his knees and the words hadn’t been planned, but still – it was all he could think.

There was a momentary silence from the angel, Crowley could imagine his expression as he realised, probably for the very first moment, that perhaps his intervention had not been welcome. Typical, bloody Aziraphale.

“I…” and yes, there was the confusion that Crowley could hear now. “I… I’m sorry, my dear, but I was worried about you, and I wasn’t sure what you’d done, and I wasn’t sure how permanent you’d wanted it to be, and, well…”

He tailed off, appreciating that he might have over-stepped his place, perhaps? But then, this was the angel so maybe not.

“I’m not sure you stumbled across me by accident,” Crowley muttered against his legs.

“No, no, I didn’t, you’re quite correct. I’ve been searching for you for months. But…” Crowley could imagine him twisting his fingers in anxiety. “Crowley, my dear, I was so worried about you!”

_I choose you. I love you._

Hopeless love swelled in Crowley. Seemingly indestructible, hopeless love, and it _hurt_ so much. He wished, with everything he was, that he had never met this damned angel, that he had stayed in Hell and turned into a monster with the rest of them. Anything had to be better than this.

He took a deep breath and pushed, shakily, to his feet, using the back of the sofa to help him. “Aziraphale,” he took a breath, held it until it was steady, his eyes fixed on his own hand. “I am going to go now. Please do not follow me and please do not look for me. I do not want to see you ever again. Do you understand me?” He looked up then, for the first time and there was Aziraphale in a crumpled undershirt and loose boxer shorts, his fluffy hair slightly flattened on one side (fuck, Crowley loved him _so_ much) and a look of such devastation in his eyes that Crowley was relieved he’d spoken before he’d seen him.

He expected an argument maybe, preferably a nod, but what he’d not been expecting was for that expression to crumble even further and for Aziraphale to _apologise_. “I’m sorry, my dear, I am so, so sorry.”

Well, that was something Crowley supposed, Aziraphale apologising for not loving him. Didn’t change anything, but at least it was an acknowledgment as to how fucked up this was. He shook his head, took a step towards the door, Aziraphale’s arm shot out to block him and he froze.

“I’m sorry for so much. I’m sorry I’ve never been completely honest with you. I’m sorry I’ve not always been kind to you. I’m sorry I reacted so, _so_ badly to what you told me that evening in the bookshop, and,” he took a deep breath, crept a little closer to the wary demon, “I am so _astoundingly_ sorry that I let you leave without making you understand exactly how much I love you back. How completely in love with _you,_ _I_ am.”

He – _what_? For a long wavering moment, Crowley could only stare and him and then, with a solid _thud_ , he was back on his arse on the floor.

“Crowley!” He could feel Aziraphale swooping in again and he still wasn’t ready for that – he just _couldn’t_ – and so the hand came back up once more, warding him away, even as he drew his knees in and concentrated really hard on breathing. It didn’t make sense, _it absolutely did not make any sense_ , why would Aziraphale say such a thing to him?

“No.”

He heard the noise Aziraphale made at his single response, a whine perhaps, an audible wince? But then he was sitting at Crowley’s side, not quite touching, but close enough that Crowley could feel the divinity of him. “I’m sorry, my darling, I am so sorry. But, well, it has been _complicated_ and, I know I haven’t always acted in the most exemplary manner, but – there were dangers as well. It would never have done for the powers that be to see that we were… _close_.”

_Sides_ , Crowley in-filled in his head. There were no sides anymore. And all that? That was bullshit. “Angel, we’ve been literally fucking since the ark, and no one ever _saw_ that.”

He could hear Aziraphale’s frown, “Well, I think that _that_ is a very different matter indeed, dear boy.”

Maybe it was.

They sat in silence, tension rolling off Aziraphale in waves, sharpening Crowley’s own mood, his own swirling confusion. What was this? Aziraphale had hunted him down, woken him up, to do what, then? Tell him that he _loved_ him? That the past five thousand years of fucking him at arm’s length had been for his own _protection_? That he hadn’t meant to corpse on him when Crowley had admitted his own sad, dark, and very unwelcomed love? To call him _darling_? More lies to add to the millions of others?

“No,” Crowley had reached his conclusion, he’d weighed the evidence, or complete lack of it, and settled on his verdict. “No,” he forced himself to look Aziraphale in the eye, forced himself to do this properly and so it would, at last, be _final_. “You don’t love me, you just _don’t_ , angel. Whatever the fuck this is – you don’t love me. You have to leave me alone.”

Aziraphale blinked.

Then drew back a little.

Then blinked again.

And after all of that, “I _do_ ,” was all he could come up with, and even that sounded nothing but petulant.

Crowley shook his head and made to push up off the floor again, the tattered edges of his heart flapping in the empty space in his chest, reawakening pain he’d successfully dampened with his torpor. “I need to go…” he muttered, feeling the tightness in his throat that he _wouldn’t_ let out.

“Why would you say that?”

Crowley bit back a sigh.

“Why would you say I don’t love you?”

“Aziraphale, please. I just need to leave.”

“No!” that was a foot-stamping moment if there ever was one. “You’re not being fair, Crowley, you’re not! I can’t believe that you would say such a thing to me when I’m here, opening my heart, my everything to you! All I have ever done is what I felt was best for us both, best for you! You know we were breaking rules, huge, great big unbreakable rules – what would you have had me do? And now, you just think you get to stand there and say I _don’t_ love you? What gives you that right to decide that you know what I’m thinking?!”

“Because you told me!” Despite himself, despite his desire to bolt, his fervent wish not to get drawn into another one of their agonisingly futile arguments, Crowley just exploded in a starburst of pain and frustration. “You fucking well told me!”

Aziraphale’s face was the picture of confusion. “I _told_ you? Dear boy, _when_? I’ve never said that to you!”

“You did! In Mesopotamia, under the stars in an empty world, you told me that it meant _nothing_ , that it was just _fucking_. Just pleasure. _Lust_.”

Aziraphale blinked again, his face crumpling in something like pain. “Crowley, my dear, that was _five thousand years ago_!”

“And?!”

“And things are different now! Much different! They’ve been different for _centuries_!”

“Have they?” and now Crowley was shouting. “You said that, did you? You _told_ me? You actually _communicated_ it to me?”

Aziraphale’s silence was telling.

“Then, how was I supposed to fucking _know_?”

Aziraphale leaned in, closer, right into Crowley’s space, forcing him to edge back a little. “Of course I didn’t _tell_ you, you idiot! How could I tell you? What would Heaven or Hell have done if they’d known I loved you? They’d have destroyed us both!”

“So, how was I supposed to know about this mythical, fucking change of heart, then?!”

Aziraphale’s hands were in angry little fists, “Because I _showed_ you! Every time, Crowley! Whenever we were together! Whenever you were civil enough to let me near you! Whenever we made love! I _showed_ you!”

The words were the cruellest punch to the gut that Crowley had ever suffered in all of his long years of suffering at the angel’s side. It proved, unequivocally, that they’d never even been in the same _book_ , never mind the same page. “Angel,” his voice broke on the word, his chest tightened around the knife Aziraphale had lodged in his heart six thousand years ago and it took everything in him not to sink back to the floor and huddle in on himself like a kicked dog, “we have _never_ made love.”

Silence.

The pain in Crowley’s chest was so fierce he stopped breathing, not that that helped, but it was one thing less to have to expend energy on. He wished for an end to this, an _end._ Maybe he should have let the demons destroy him after all? Maybe they still would. Maybe they could be persuaded to have another go – he absolutely could not live like this for another moment.

“Crowley…”

And still the damned angel would not give up tormenting him.

_Go away… please, just leave me alone._ He didn’t even have the breath to say it.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

And how did Aziraphale even manage to sound so wrecked when _Crowley_ was the one crumbling into pathetic demon dust? 

“Darling, please let me tell you. Please let me _prove_ it to you. Please let me explain.”

Were there tears in those words? Crowley pressed his face into the palms of his hands.

“Please. And then, afterwards, if you want to go, well, of course you still can, and of course I will let you, and of course I won’t,” there was a pause and an audible swallow, “And of course I won’t follow you. But first, let me try to make you see. _Please_?”

_No._

Crowley had had enough of this. He’d _done_ all this, was done _with_ all this. How many times had he tried to walk away in the past? To leave Aziraphale behind? To _forget_ him? And this time he’d thought he’d found the perfect way, thought he’d actually made a permanent break. He should have chosen a better place to hide, that was all, somewhere further away, harder to get to. Should have gone to the bloody Himalayas.

Alpha Centauri.

_But maybe,_ whispered an irritating voice in his head, _you actually_ wanted _him to find you?_

No.

Or did he?

“Please?”

No.

He was fucked, he was so absolutely fucked. He shook his head, willed himself to just walk away.

“Crowley, please…”

He shook his head again, squeezed his eyes closed and tried to martial every ounce of self-control he had left.

“Darling?”

And what was that? How was he anyone’s _darling_? How could he, dark and damned and despicable as he was, be anything precious? He needed to go, he _wanted_ to go.

No.

The word was there, right at the tip of his forked tongue.

No.

But it was a trembling nod that made it out into reality.

A trembling nod.

He really was the most wretched demon ever.

For a long while, there was nothing, just Crowley’s own battle with himself, with his breathing, with his shaking limbs and then… He felt the eddies in the air first, the tiny ripples of movement against his fine-spun hair and then, he couldn’t restrain the sharp intake of breath as tentative fingers landed, softly, on the side of his head. Slowly, tortuously, they trailed down, trembling as they travelled, tracing the curve of his ear, causing an eruption of goose-flesh all over his body, down the taut column of his neck, then back up again, wandering up to his jaw, cupping it lightly, a shivering thumb stretching up to smooth across his cheek.

Crowley’s heart was threatening to thump right out of his chest.

The air moved again, sparkled in divinity, warmed through, and then there were lips pressed to the other side of his head, pressed into the hair that he’d thought the colour of dried blood on an embattled broad-sword. _Pressed_ in as he was held steady. Then there was another, dry and chaste, on the place that forever denoted him as evil, the snake that marred the perfection created by the Almighty, his demon-mark. He shuddered, but did not pull away.

Another kiss, this one on the biting point of his cheek bone. One on his cheek, so warm against the lingering chill of his flesh. The thumb on his other cheek stroked again, the fingers cupping his chin so reverently. Crowley no longer had any hope in controlling his shaking, he stood and swayed slightly, eyes shut on the world, fists tight at his sides and then those lips moved again, finding the slope of his cheek, very edge of his lips, the very corner of his mouth and then – oh…

Aziraphale had fucked him plenty of times. He’d sucked him off and licked him out. He’d played with his arse and made him come so hard from nothing but the pressure on his prostate. He’d had him up against walls and over desks, in the open air and in tiny cupboards. It had been rushed and messy, slow and tortuous. He’d had him in thousands of ways and over thousands of years.

But he’d never kissed him.

_Never._

Crowley had dreamed of this moment, both conscious musings whilst he jerked himself off, and unconsciously as he slept his nights away, but _nothing_ had prepared him for the truth of it. The lips on his were slightly dry, slightly wary, but with a tingle of angelic frisson so obvious that there never could be any doubt as to _who_ this was. Who this was _kissing him,_ pressing their lips together as if he _wasn’t_ a foul fiend from the depths of Hell. As if this angel, this wonderfully pure and radiant and beautiful and bitchy and bastardy and _Heavenly_ being did actually want him.

Deep inside, Crowley’s intractable optimism roused itself from the depths and pushed up into something a little more like hope. Cautious hope. Dangerous hope. Hopeless hope, whilst the angel’s lips just caressed him, softly, gently, _lovingly_.

Tears pressed hard at the back of Crowley’s closed eyelids.

Aziraphale moved, shuffled his feet a tiny bit, edging closer, tipping his head to switch the angle a little and then… Crowley had to snatch at the wrist cradling his jaw to stop himself from keeling over as a tongue flicked a little against demon-lips. His stomach swooped, and a sound, not unlike a groan of want (or defeat), sounded from deep in his chest as the kiss heightened, as his own lips were persuaded to open, as Aziraphale sealed them together and pressed in, as a tongue pushed into him, flowing seamlessly into his heart, his entire being, opening his defences to a tide of heat and thought and emotion and memory and sentiment and tenderness, devotion, passion, friendship, affection, adoration and – Crowley’s limbs gave up on him and he sagged, boneless – _love_. Dear Lord above, it was undoubtedly love.

As he always (eventually) did, Aziraphale caught him before he hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces. They sprawled rather awkwardly on the carpet, Aziraphale holding him up slightly, Crowley shaking and _buzzing_ , a ringing in his ears so loud it must have been minutes until Aziraphale’s frantic whispers made it in his consciousness.

“Crowley? My dear, are you alright? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Have I hurt you? Are you hurt? _Crowley?_ ”

Crowley blinked up at him, aware that he was still gripping Aziraphale’s wrist in his long fingers and squeezed it, successfully getting Aziraphale to shut up, to stare at him, expectantly, silently, still enough that he could catch Crowley’s dry whisper of, “I felt it.”

Aziraphale frowned, his face etched in desperate worry and Crowley smiled at him.

“Your love, angel. I _felt_ it.”

Then he had to close his eyes in a fruitless attempt to keep the tears in, as Aziraphale held him close and wiped his cheeks and petted his hair and sobbed his own apologies into Crowley’s neck.


	22. Maam Cross, Republic of Ireland, 2019 - Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this :)

_Continued..._

Maam Cross, Republic of Ireland, a Monday in February, 2019

(Six Months After the World Ended)

When the tears had dried, they left an awkward sort of ‘ _what now?_ ’ in their place. Self-consciously, Crowley extracted himself from Aziraphale and shuffled back to sit against the front of the sofa once more, using the hem of his t-shirt to wipe at his face. Aziraphale knelt in front of him, his own face red and blotchy, his eyes slightly swollen and his demeanour worried once more.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the edgy silence and Crowley pushed out a half-hearted smile.

“I know you are, angel.”

“I _am_ though. For everything. And I think it’s important,” Crowley heard his forced intake of breath, “Well, I think that it’s important that I explain it all to you. Everything. I cannot have you misunderstanding me again.”

Crowley stared at the carpet between his legs and resisted pointing out that he felt he’d always perfectly understood just what Aziraphale had _conveyed_ at any point in their convoluted history together, and chose to nod, instead. In all honesty, he was still having trouble thinking past the immense swell of love, _love for him_ , that he’d felt when Aziraphale had kissed him. Little else seemed to be getting through.

If he’d expected a huge confession at that point, however, he would have been disappointed as, after that, Aziraphale seemed to lose his nerve slightly. Instead, he pushed to his feet and bustled around, lighting lamps. pouring expensive Irish whiskey, banking up the fire again, persuading Crowley onto the sofa and fussing a fluffy blanket into place over his legs. Finally, it seemed, he was ready and, as Crowley stared at his drink and tried to keep the pounding of his heart to acceptable levels, Aziraphale looked into the flames and began.

“You’re right, in the early days, you _are_ right, and it was nothing more than desire,” his voice was quiet, solid and sure though, and Crowley envied him that level of control. “But, even so, it was only because I didn’t realise _why_ I was so attracted to you. Yes, your physical form was pleasing to me, it always had been, but I _thought_ of you all the time. Worried about you. Fretted for you. You have no idea how many times I followed you from afar, watched you. I tried to convince myself that I was keeping you under the necessary surveillance, that was certainly going to be my excuse should I be challenged by Heaven over it, but it took me thousands of years to realise that, even back then, I was starting to fall in love with you.”

Crowley’s stomach flipped in that familiar painful manner, but he didn’t lift his gaze from his melting ice cubes.

Aziraphale took a sip of his own drink and continued. “So, time passed, as it does, and, well, I felt like we were becoming _closer_ , less adversaries and more _friends_ -”

“You’ve never admitted to being my friend.”

There was a pause. “No, maybe not. Not out loud at any rate, but _dearest_ , you know what they would have done to us if they’d thought that.”

Of course, that was very true. It was just, well, It had never put Crowley off, had it? But then… that didn’t mean that Aziraphale wouldn’t have agonised over it, of course he would. They were very different beings, after all.

“And I felt, every time we lay together, that we were becoming closer. I _thought_ that we were becoming closer at any rate…”

The angel’s gaze shifted to land on Crowley’s head. He could feel it, but he didn’t return it, and eventually Aziraphale moved on.

“But it was in Florence that things really changed. Or, I suppose they didn’t really change, I just – woke up to how they were a little more.”

“Florence?” Crowley had felt that change too, afterwards, but he’d never really understood _why_.

Aziraphale laughed, a sad, dry little noise. “Well, I’d lost track of you, you’d moved around so much and I was trying to think where you might head to next, you always tended to have somewhere you used as a base from time to time, Rome, Egypt… and, well, the only place I could think of where you had any ties at all, any reason to return, was Florence.”

Ties?

_Leonardo_ … Crowley had been ignorant of the fact that Aziraphale had known about his _involvement_ with Leo.

“So I went, and I waited, and I put out a few feelers and then I heard that you had, indeed, arrived in town and were currently drinking in a tavern. So, I didn’t think, really, I just headed out and when I arrived, I saw you and…”

Demon wings in Florence. Crowley remembered it well.

“Well, you and he were laughing, and you looked so… _at ease_ with his company… in a way that you never were in mine… and I was so angry and… well, afterwards, I realised I had been jealous, which was truly despicable of me. I realised I didn’t just want your body, I wanted what he had; your regard, your friendship, your _love_. I realised then, for the very first time, that I loved _you_.”

Silence wove around them both. Crowley was back in Florence in his head, he could smell the paint of Leo’s studio, he could taste the lemon he squeezed into his wine, he could feel the heat of the afternoon as they lay together in the huge bed in the loft, the air still and hazy, Leo’s soft brown eyes so full of understanding as he listened to Crowley’s tales of immortal life.

He risked a quick glance Aziraphale’s way. Just a quick one, before fixing his eyes on his glass once more. “He accepted me for what I was. What I _am_. He never wished I was something _better_. He knew, and he never lamented it.”

He heard Aziraphale blow out a long breath. “I’ve not always been kind to you, my dear. I’ve not always done the right things, thought the right thoughts, sided with the right sides, and I am _so sorry_ for that. But I have changed, Crowley. Through time and experience I _have_ changed – and it’s been a long time since I have thought of you as anything other than _perfect_.”

Crowley shook his head, his expression twisting. “Angel, you-”

“I know. I was foolish in the End Times, Crowley, I understand that. And I know I, I, well, I lied to you, lied _about you_ , but I have always loved you, _always_. It was just that, for a long time, I loved Heaven as well.”

And that hurt. Not the thought that Aziraphale loved his home, but the reminder of how hard for him it must have been to try and balance that love with everything else that was going on around him. With Crowley. And then to realise that the place that he loved so much – the people – well, all they wanted was to destroy him. _Shut your stupid mouth and die already._ Crowley was so glad he’d never told Aziraphale that part.

At least Crowley had always known that Hell hated him.

Aziraphale sighed again and rubbed a hand through his hair. “So, Florence, and I knew that I loved you, but you were so difficult to work out. You always came for me, when I was in trouble. You stopped Gabriel from sending me back to Heaven. You lay with me so willingly. Sometimes I caught you watching me, with this look on your face that I could have sworn was something _more_ … But then you would vanish for months, years, _decades_ even, you were often so surly, so cold. I knew you lay with humans too-”

“As did you.”

“Not since 1793. They never held the same appeal for me after that.”

Crowley wasn’t entirely sure what that was in reference to.

“But I couldn’t work you out. I wasn’t sure of your feelings… not until 1941 and that night in the church. Do you remember that?”

Did he remember? A sharpening of the pain in his chest told Crowley that yes, he absolutely did remember that.

“I’d thought that I was certain, that I’d _felt_ it from you like never before. Not just vague love, but complete love. _Romantic_ love. And afterwards, in bed,” Aziraphale laughed, but Crowley could hear the edge of pain in the sound. “I’d though that was the night that we were going to be honest with each other. I’d thought that was the night to change everything. It was… oh, Crowley, it was _incredible_ , being with you like that but then…Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I? I’d obviously upset you, and I still don’t even know how.”

Crowley swallowed, his throat too tight to speak to let out the barrage of excuses he wanted to spew.

_I wasn’t to know._

_I didn’t understand what you wanted from me._

_I never_ dreamed _you’d want me back._

_I was just trying to keep myself whole._

_I couldn’t believe._

And did that mean that he believed _now_?

“So we went back to what we had been doing, but I thought I was showing you my love, all the time. I always sought you out, I _worshipped_ you with my body, I tried to be there for you, to understand you. I know you found things hard, things you were supposed to orchestrate, _facilitate_. African famines, genocides, modern plagues… I’d seen before how they brought you down and I tried to buoy you up, to let you see that this might have been Hell, but it wasn’t _you_.”

Crowley didn’t answer, he was too ashamed of being that transparent about it all.

“The holy water, I got you that to keep you safe. All it would have taken was for one of those other idiots to get one _drop_ on you… I couldn’t let that happen. Not when I loved you so much.”

“You said I went too _fast_ for you,” the words were spat out before he could stop them, and again, Aziraphale let out his sad little laugh.

“You did. You still do. You have no idea how I worried for you, after what transpired in Greece.”

Crowley flushed.

“You move so quickly. You’re always changing. I worried that you’d vanish on me; that, one day, things would get too much and you’d just… leave. Permanently. Far too quickly for me to do anything about it. That’s why I gave you the flask; I thought – if you were feeling that way – that you might see it and think of me and _slow down_ a little. At least enough to let me try and help you. I was always so worried I would lose you completely.”

The flush deepened. What an idiot – Crowley was an idiot. How had he mis-interpreted that comment? How had he let it haunt him? _Change_ him? And, in the end, he _had_ tried to leave, hadn’t he? If he’d still had that flask of holy water, would he have used it in the way that Aziraphale had always dreaded he would? He wasn’t even sure any more. 

He dropped his head and rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry…” and what was he actually apologising for? There was so much mess between them, mess of their own making, it was impossible to tell.

“Darling,” he felt Aziraphale edge closer, “please don’t apologise, you have nothing to apologise for. I’m the one who’s loved you for all these centuries and done such an awful job of letting you know.”

_Loved him?_ Yes, that’s what Crowley had felt, _he’d felt it_ , but still, could he believe that it was true? That he, a demon, was _loved_ by an angel??? He shook his head. “But you’ve never… you’ve never…” Never what? Yes, they fucked, and he absolutely _knew_ it wasn’t making love, and maybe Aziraphale had stalked him a bit and didn’t wish to see him hurt, but, still, there was so much – _missing_. He swallowed, forced some composure into his voice and allowed a sliver of anger through as well, “If you’d really loved me, would it have ever killed you to show me even a little bit of _warmth_? I mean, what did you do when I told you how _I_ felt? The fucking silence said it all, Aziraphale!”

And that was it, wasn’t it? Everything Aziraphale had given him felt like it had been prised from his cold, dead hands. Reluctantly. Grudgingly. Yes, he might have loved him, loved him still, but had he ever _wanted_ to?

“Oh, darling,” a shaking hand rested on his bent head and he flinched a little even as he simultaneously basked in the contact. “I am so sorry, I have made such a mess of everything. I’ve hurt you so much. Crowley, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Crowley reached up and picked up the hand from his head, bringing it down and cradling it in both of his, pressing his lips to it, wishing he knew more of what he could do.

Aziraphale’s other hand replaced the first, brushing through the short strands of hair. His touch was shaken, his voice resigned. “You felt it, but you can’t believe it, can you? You can’t believe me?”

Crowley shook his head and Aziraphale let out a trembling breath. “I’m sorry I have given you so much cause to doubt me, but, I understand my dear, I truly do. It’s like, well, I know that our love for each other cannot possibly get us into any more trouble than we already are with above and below, but still, it’s so hard not to be frightened, not to want to run from this.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand in his and heard Aziraphale steel himself. “But you will give me a chance to prove it to you, won’t you? To let you see the devotion I have for you? The whole of my love? The truth of it?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it?

Could Crowley do that? Put himself out there again? Open himself to all that hurt and doubt and confusion? The thought was terrifying. Utterly terrifying. But… he’d _felt_ it, so what if it were really true? How would he ever live with himself if he didn’t give it everything he had? If he’d never tried? What would life be like if Aziraphale _did_ love him _because he wanted to_? And not just because he did. What would that feel like, to live like that? He almost lost himself in the wave of desperate longing that washed over him.

“Crowley?”

“I don’t think…” Crowley stared at Aziraphale’s hand, still held close in both of his. “I feel that we maybe need to… I’m not sure that we…” he could feel Aziraphale’s distress mounting with every aborted attempt at explanation he was making. “The _fucking_ ,” he mumbled instead, feeling his cheeks heat, “I think we should cut out the fucking.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Aziraphale sounded wretched, “I think… well, I think that we have done it all in the wrong order, haven’t we?” He paused. “You think – you think that that’s what’s caused all of this confusion and upset? The fact that we were mak–, _sleeping together_ from the start?”

Crowley shrugged, it certainly hadn’t helped.

“Maybe I should have kissed you first, all those thousands of years ago in the empty world. But then, even then, I doubt I would have been able to hide my love from you in a kiss, and that would have put us in terrible danger. I’ve never transmitted my love to a human through a kiss before, you think that is something about _us_ , or about _you_? Do you always feel love through a kiss?”

Crowley shrugged again, eyes downcast, “I don’t know. That was my first.” He _felt_ Aziraphale’s shocked intake of breath.

“Your first _kiss_? From _anyone_?”

Crowley shrugged again, _what the Hell…_ and looked Aziraphale in the eye. “From anyone. And that time after the flood?”

Aziraphale stared at him with wide eyes.

“ _That_ was my first time too. Makes sense they were both with you.”

Tears danced in Aziraphale’s eyes once more and, for a moment, they could only stare at each other, Crowley past the point of embarrassment, Aziraphale seeming to struggle to take it all in. Eventually though, it was the angel who spoke, his voice dry and shaken. “Let me prove to you how I feel about you,” he whispered. “Give me a couple of months. No sex. Just us. Let me show you what you are to me.”

Part of Crowley wanted to run for the hills and keep on running for all of eternity, but… he couldn’t get away from the fact that he’d _felt it_. He might have spent a goodly proportion of his life so far in fear, but he wasn’t a coward, not when it counted.

He nodded. Just one nod. But it was enough for Aziraphale to see. For him to suck in a shaking, sobbing breath and for his free hand to land on Crowley’s shoulder, for his lips to press into the crown of Crowley’s head, for a trembling, “Oh, _Crowley_. Oh, my darling, thank you…” to spill over him.

Crowley reached up and wrapped his fingers around the angel’s forearm, holding on as, yet again, the world shifted beneath him.


	23. Soho, May, 2020 - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge apologies for the delay on this, I have many reasons! (Excuses?)  
> 1\. I was away for a few days (that seems so long ago now!)  
> 2\. I have been working loads, covering for colleagues who are self isolating or social distancing  
> 3\. My nice little epilogue turned out to be BLOODY LONG! 16k long! FFs...  
> Anyway, it's almost done and I'm posting it in three sections, hopefully over the next three nights (Corona-craziness allowing)
> 
> Part One...

Soho, a sunny Saturday in May, 2020

(Nine Months After the World Ended)

Crowley stood and looked, critically, at himself in the mirror, sighing as he took in the fitted black shirt, the expensively tailored jacket, the jeans, the boots.

It was hardly a new look for him, and this life was new in so many places – was it time for change, maybe? Was black a little, _last year_? Last _six_ thousand years? What would the angel think if he mixed it up a little?

A thought was all it took until he was standing there in the same boots, same jeans, but now a red plaid shirt, soft, _tartan_ … A scowl on Crowley’s face and it suddenly vanished, and Crowley was left shirtless, staring again, muttering, “Too bloody desperate, Crowley,” under his breath.

_Black_ plaid then? No, that lasted barely longer.

Plain black? No.

With the jacket? No – he looked like a fucking waiter at a funeral, they were only going to the _cinema_.

Back to being bare chested, idly running his eyes over his very noticeable ribs, his almost concave stomach, he frowned again and resisted padding himself out with a bit of extra flesh, it would only fade again the second he forgot about it.

The cinema. Casual. _Smart casual_ would be the code. But of course the angel would be in his usual Victorian attire… and it was warm out… and they were going for a curry afterwards… A black v-neck jumper, soft lambswool, materialised over his torso and he eyed it critically, lightening its tone into more of a graphite shade, again into charcoal, once more into gun-metal grey. Yeah – that was a bit more summer-like. He slid his sleeves artfully up his forearms and appraised once more, darkening back to charcoal and finally nodding. That was about as good as it was going to get.

He turned away from the mirror and, instead, ran his eyes over the interior of the flat, Crowley’s _new_ flat, not the Mayfair one, not any more.

After Aziraphale had brought him back from Ireland, he hadn’t wanted to stay there any longer. The angel had looked after it for him, kept his plants going, removed the stain of Ligur from his floor, but still, it had never been his home, never been the happiest of places, it had only ever been a refuge. And then, since Hastur and Ligur had breached it, it wasn’t even that anymore; how could he curl up and go to sleep for a week in a place where demons had tried to kidnap him? Where they’d happily have killed him? No. He let it go.

The penthouse in Soho had been Aziraphale’s find. In all honesty, Crowley suspected that the angel had somehow arranged for its vacancy and subsequent letting – flats like this rarely came up in Soho.

He was on the top floor again, but this time the top floor was only three floors up. The ground floor housed a bakery (obviously) and the middle floor, some kind of charity set up. Crowley wasn’t really sure what they did in there, but he’d seen enough sad-faced children trail in, only to come out looking slightly happier that he’d made sure that they would have enough funds to see them easily into the next decade. Theft – that seemed like a solid bit of demonic work to be getting on with, not that anyone really cared anymore of course.

It wasn’t as big as his last flat had been, but it had an outside terrace which he and the angel liked to sit on and watch the sun dip behind the London skyline, and a conservatory which perfectly housed all of his plants. He glared in that direction now, watched as every one of them shuffled themselves into something like a state of attention and he nodded, satisfied. “Yeah,” he growled as he paced over to the immaculate kitchen, “I should think so too. Don’t you all go slacking off just ‘cause you know the angel’s coming over later.”

At least, Crowley hoped that the angel was coming over later. That was his plan, anyway. Cinema, dinner and then back here, out on the terrace with the fairy lights and the water feature if it was nice enough, inside with the top of the range sound system and the fresh lilacs in their huge, glass vases if it wasn’t.

He had hopes for this night.

Satisfied that the kitchen was gleaming enough for him, Crowley moved to the wine chiller and straightened each of the bottles reclining in there. Every one of them had been handpicked for this evening, every one of them had best taste just right – if they knew what was good for them.

He paced into the bedroom, scanned his eye across the neatly made bed with its grey eiderdown and military corners, the skylight which was letting in golden slices of late afternoon sun and the bowl of white roses sitting on the dresser.

Everything was perfectly neat and tidy. Everything was ready. Everything had been ready since ten a.m.. Really, Crowley just needed to get a grip of himself, the angel would arrive when he arrived.

He paced back across the open plan living area, still bright and light, but, hopefully, a little less like Heaven this time – that was another place that Crowley wasn’t keen on thinking about anymore. Unlatching the perfectly engineered and totally soundproof tri-fold doors, Crowley pushed them open and stepped outside, first of all pressing up on his tiptoes until he could see the fluted tip of the book shop roof, and then leaning his arms over the railings and looking down, watching a busy Saturday in Soho as it streamed by below him.

He was so absorbed that he missed Aziraphale’s arrival. Drawn from his slightly nervous musings by the sound of the doorbell, he frowned and made his way to the door. “How many times do I have to tell him to just come in?” he muttered to himself. “It’s not like I ever knock at the book shop, even when it’s closed. _Especially_ when it’s closed.”

He yanked the door open, a snappy, “Why don’t you just-” and ground to a halt as he took in the angel standing there, pale and fluffy as ever, wide smile on his face, and the hugest bouquet of flowers in his arms. Crowley just choked on every word he could have ever used.

Aziraphale’s expression crumpled and the flowers in his arms sagged a little as he took in Crowley’s dumbfounded expression.

“Oh dear,” he murmured, eyes falling to the carpet. “Oh dear. Too much? I’m sorry, my dear, I just thought, well, you seemed okay with the wine I’d got you before and the cheeses and the plants, and, well, I saw these as I was on my way back from the coffee shop earlier on and,” he swallowed again. “Too much. It’s okay. I understand. I’ll pop them down in the bins at the back and then we-”

“No!” Crowley burst into action, stumbling forward and just about grabbing the bouquet from Aziraphale. “No! They are… fine… perfectly fine in fact. More than fine…” he noticed Aziraphale’s confused expression and forced himself to take a breath. “I like them, angel, thank you. I just… was surprised, that’s all. You’ve never bought me flowers before.”

Aziraphale’s frown didn’t lift. “But you’ve bought me flowers, plenty of times! And you _like_ flowers!”

Crowley smiled, “I do.”

Within ten minutes, the flowers were standing in pride of place right in front of the fireplace and an angel and a demon were leaning against the railing of the balcony, soaking up the evening sunshine whilst sipping wine and admiring the palette of pastel shades.

“What are those delightfully ruffled ones, my dear?”

“Peonies.”

“They’re my favourites.”

Crowley smiled as the pink blooms perked themselves up to even more ruffly heights.

“Oh, but the rest of them are simply stunning as well!”

This time he had to laugh as the entire bouquet almost levitated itself off the floor in pride at Aziraphale’s lavish praise. He turned away, back to the busy street scene below him and closed his eyes as the sun shone on his face. He felt Aziraphale turn with him, heard the angelic swallow of wine and then, “Have you had a busy day, today, my dear?”

It was a pointless question really, they’d breakfasted together in the café around the corner, and Crowley had called in at the bookshop mid-afternoon with lattes and a slice of cake for the angel. They’d spoken on the phone eight times, and messaged each other, well, _countless_ times. But still, Aziraphale always asked him because now Aziraphale _could_ ask him, and could care about his answer too. He opened his eyes and smiled at his companion, had he always smiled so much? “Not so bad, you know,” he answered vaguely, not really wanting to tip the angel off as to how long he’d spent tidying his flat and choosing his outfit. “Drained a few mobile batteries on the way back this afternoon,” he shrugged, “nothing much.”

What he didn’t say was that the batteries had all belonged to the groups of blazered boys who had been shouting insulting remarks to the single blazered girl who’d had the misfortune to be waiting at the same bus stop as them. He also didn’t add that he’d made sure they couldn’t find their bus passes either, once the impatient driver turned up and so the girl had been able to climb aboard by herself. He didn’t say any of these things, but felt that, oddly, Aziraphale already knew. 

“I like your jumper.”

Crowley blushed.

“The colour suits you.”

Draining his glass, Crowley pushed up from the balcony and grabbed his jacket, his cheeks threatening to set fire to the rest of him. “You ready?” his voice was choked, “Time to go.”

__**__

The film was okay, the curry certainly passable, but Crowley had been unable to settle the whole evening through, had been thinking, thinking, _thinking_ about what would happen when they came back here afterwards. Usually, they sat on the balcony or in the open plan living area or back at the bookshop and talked and drank and then, as the early hours of the morning rolled around, whichever one of them it was not at home, returned for the rest of the evening.

Tonight though, Crowley was hoping to change that pattern.

It was warm enough for the balcony and so that’s where they sat, drinking the wine and chatting (Aziraphale) or staring into their drink and feeling incredibly nervous (Crowley).

“And then, after that,” Aziraphale’s words washed over Crowley as he stared at his bobbing ice cubes, wondering what on earth he should say to get the ball rolling, so to speak. “Well, there was no point at all to him staying and so he went, very quickly I should say.”

Crowley ‘hmmm’ed obediently into the gap the angel had left for him, trying to decide which selection of words available to him wasn’t absolutely cringe-making.

“I gave him ten of my very best first editions to be getting on with though,” Aziraphale continued.

“Right.” Or maybe he shouldn’t say anything? Maybe he should just get up, all suave and sophisticated, take Aziraphale’s hand and lead him towards the sparkling clean and tidy bedroom?

“Which he ripped to pieces, right in front of me!”

“Yeah?”

“And then proceeded to dance naked in a vat of lambs blood and – oh, for Heaven’s sake Crowley, what is the matter with you?”

That tone of voice, the tone of an irritated angel, was one that Crowley had been hard-wired to for many a century, and it successfully broke into his stupor, rousing him enough that he could blink, stupidly, at Aziraphale for a moment before just blurting, “I wondered if you wanted to stay the night with me. Here. Tonight. Maybe. Possibly. In my bed. With me. Maybe. If you wanted,” and then he forced his mouth shut so quickly that the snap was probably heard in the street below.

Aziraphale stared at him, his drink half-way to his mouth and his expression so disbelieving that Crowley instantly started a frantic backtrack. “No, no, course not. Course! Silly me. Forget I said it. Forget I said anything. Anything. At all. Anything. Fancy a drink? I fancy a drink… I’ll go and get one.”

And then he was off, putting his drink down on the bistro table on the balcony, before bustling himself off in the guise of going to get another one, only to stand in the kitchen and bang his head repeatedly on the cupboard door, muttering, “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid demon! Stupid demon… Fucking stupid-”

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s voice, soft and cautious, broke in on him and he whirled away from the cupboard, opening the fridge and staring resolutely into its depths before brightly asking, “Tea?”

“Crowley,” a pale-clad arm snuck past him and pushed the fridge shut, before taking hold of his arm and gently turning him around. He resolutely wished that he hadn’t left his glasses on the table outside and half-heartedly considered wishing another pair into life but then it was too late and Aziraphale was lifting his chin whilst ducking his own head, claiming eye contact and twisting Crowley’s insides with the smile he offered. “Crowley, my darling, come here.”

Crowley did. He let himself be pulled into Aziraphale’s arms, let himself be held as his head sagged onto an angelic shoulder. He’d been an idiot. A greedy idiot. What on earth did he want to risk all this for? Hadn’t he and Aziraphale fucked enough to last them a lifetime already?

“I was rather under the impression that we’d given all of that up,” Aziraphale told the side of Crowley’s head and that odd twisting in his belly was back once more.

“Ah, right, yes. I can see how you would have thought that. Since we haven’t.” It was a reason, at least.

“Well,” Aziraphale was ridiculously calm. “Have we?”

“Ah… if you like.”

“And you, my dear?” the arms around him tightened. “Do _you_ like?”

“I’d like, yeah.” Bloody hell, what was wrong with his mouth today? That was not what it was he’d meant to say. “Well, what I mean is-” He stopped, terrified, as Aziraphale drew back, shrewd blue eyes sweeping over his naked face, reading his every thought so effortlessly.

“You’d like us to recommence the more physical parts of our relationship?”

Crowley nodded, suddenly mute, and Aziraphale frowned.

“Why?”

Ice ran through his veins. _Why_? Well… he hadn’t prepared an answer for that one, he’d not actually prepared an answer for any of them, but still. _Why?_ Had he been that bad a shag?

“No, dear,” Aziraphale sounded irritated again. “Don’t go zooming off down that blind alley. I mean why _now_ , when you were the one who suggested we stop in the first place?”

Crowley remembered that day, that hotel in Ireland where he was so bloody and raw and stripped of every little protection he’d ever had. But he wasn’t that demon anymore. He wasn’t that damaged. He shrugged and Aziraphale’s expression hardened. “Is it for me? Do you think that, somehow, this is what I need? What you have to be for me? Because it’s not, you know, Crowley. It’s not. I love you and I’ll love you whether we-”

“No,” Crowley jumped in then, unwilling to let Aziraphale ramble himself into a guilty temper. “It’s not that, it’s just… well, it’s what people do when they’re, you know…” he gestured miserably between them and wished he’d not spent so long straightening out his bedding. “And I thought that… I’d maybe hoped you… I felt it might be…” he gave up then and dropped his chin, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him, but instead it was the angel who did that, tipping him back up and kissing him so deeply, so devoutly that Crowley was overcome with butterflies and goose-bumps. 

It was incredible, that they could just do this now, stand and kiss, in his kitchen, in his lounge, in the bookshop, kiss and be kissed back like his life depended. He’d began to realise that, maybe, it actually did.

Eventually they had to separate though, Crowley knew he was shaking and wondered whether Aziraphale was going to try and pull back again, but they only stood, forehead to forehead, breathing each other’s space, arms keeping them close.

“Angel,” Crowley tried one last time; he needed Aziraphale to understand him. “I want this. I want you.”

Aziraphale kissed him again, “I know you do,” but he didn’t move.

Crowley swallowed, fear starting to swirl within him. “But you don’t…?” he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

“Of course I do!” Fierce blue eyes looked into his as his face was held firmly by beautifully manicured fingers, keeping him close, keeping their eyes locked, stopping Crowley from bolting. “I’ve wanted you for every moment of the last five thousand years! It’s just…” he trailed off and Crowley could see his nervous swallow. “I don’t…”

“Don’t what?” Crowley felt the rising sickness in his belly.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Crowley blinked, “Hurt me?” and a laugh pushed out of his lips, dry and humourless. “Angel, I think I’m well past the fragile virgin stage-”

“Not that!” Aziraphale’s voice was sharp, his eyes flashing. “Hurt you…” he shook his head, lips pressed together and pressed a palm over Crowley’s thumping heart, “ _in here!_ ”

Silence.

Crowley found himself blinking again.

And again.

He closed his eyes and he felt the flush creep up his neck; Aziraphale just cannot have mean _that_. Hurt him? How did that make sense? It must be something else. He tried to pull back ever so slightly from the angel, give him an out. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

The hands were back on the sides of his face, though. Warm hands, safe hands. “No, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was low, intense. “No, darling, don’t go there, don’t do this to us. I’ve told you, of course I want you, I want _everything_. It’s just…” Crowley felt his exhale. “Well, it’s just… I’d never want to push you into something you didn’t want. Not now. Not after – well, after all the times I already have… And anyway,” the forced brightness was jarring. “We have all the time we want, now, we don’t have to rush into anything.”

Pain spiked through Crowley’s heart as he realised that maybe he wasn’t the only one still carrying the scars of their millennia of miscommunication. It was vital that he helped the angel to _understand_. He took a deep breath and forced his eyes open, although he couldn’t quite make eye contact, could only fix his gaze on a new bow tie, the colour of a spring morning sky. “Angel,” his voice was hoarse. “I’ve been waiting… _centuries_ ,” (millennia?), “for this chance, the chance,” he swallowed hard, damned himself to the hilt, dropped his voice to merest of whispers, and wet for it. “The chance to make love with you – for the very first time,” he heard Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath, felt the hands on his face tighten. “The chance that, one day, you would make me yours.”

“Oh, Crowley…”

A wave of heat washed through Crowley with his words: shame for his neediness, relief at the angel’s reaction, pride at his bravery, lust at the pictures in his head. “I just... I just need it. I need _you_.”

“Dearest,” the hands on his face were shaking, Aziraphale’s voice was shaking. “That you’d trust me enough to do this with you, that you’d _want_ to do this with me, after _everything_ … That is the most precious gift I could ever be given.”

Crowley had no more words, Aziraphale’s trembling was running into his frame, stealing what was left of his courage. He leaned in, his heart thrilling at his audacity, and kissed his angel, slowly at first, then more deeply, languorously, increasing in passion and depth until finally, Aziraphale pulled away, his pupils blown, delightful patches of colour in his cheeks. They watched each other in silence and then slowly, deliberately, the angel took a step back, his fingers finding Crowley’s as he tugged him towards the hallway.

“Yes?” Crowley asked breathlessly.

Aziraphale nodded.

“Now?”

“Now,” Aziraphale repeated, his voice low.

“But...” Crowley’s eyes flicked quickly over the angel’s face, up and then down again, unable to linger long. “I don’t want to push you into this,” confusion, trepidation, fear of just ruining _everything_ swirled inside him.

Aziraphale dropped his hand and took a step away: Crowley flicked his eyes to the carpet and drew his courage around him like armour.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was gentle, “ _darling_. Look at me.”

Crowley couldn’t. He couldn’t. He absolutely couldn’t… Slowly, his chin rose anyway. Slowly his eyes, tracked up the still figure. Slowly he looked, as he’d been told to. 

Aziraphale was standing there in a jacket almost a century old, part of a tired, old, ensemble more soothingly familiar than anything that Crowley could ever imagine. Crowley looked at him, the obvious start of a hard-on nestled in his trousers, his hair mussed, his pupils blown, his expression unbearably _tender_ and abruptly wondered what the fuck was wrong with him, wondered how he could ever doubt anything this angel said to him. “I love you,” he blurted, watching with awe as everything about Aziraphale brightened, then he snagged the angel’s hand himself and hauled them both down the hallway to the bedroom. 

They burst over the threshold together, Crowley suddenly coming to an abrupt halt as their feet landed on the plush carpet of his most cherished of places. As much as he’d certainly not _expected_ getting Aziraphale into his bed this night, he had, obviously, hoped for it, desperately hoped for it, and… prepared… a little. Just in case.

He’d bought new bedding, actually _bought it_ , washed and pressed it the human way before spending far too long in smoothing it carefully onto his huge bed, arranging the new scatter cushions _just so_. He’d tidied, vacuumed and dusted (even though his rooms were always impeccably clean and tidy), closed the Velux blinds, chosen the flowers, left a single, artful, lamp shining away in a corner and, in a move that had seen him flush scarlet at the time, made sure that there was lube, real human lube, in the bedside drawer.

It had seemed sensible at the time. Hopeful. But now… he cast a fearful look Aziraphale’s way as the angel’s eyes jumped from preparation to preparation, well, now maybe it just screamed _desperate_?

He waited… waited… and finally Aziraphale turned his way, a beautiful smile spilling across his face, “I love _you,_ ” he stated before slamming into him, kissing with everything he had, flooding Crowley with shimmering, glittering love.

They stood together, hands on backs or shoulders, clothing still in place, but that fact that this was deliberate, agreed, pre-determined and that Aziraphale was doing this with Crowley, because he _wanted to do it with Crowley_ , well, that just made it, hands down, the most intimate thing that Crowley had ever done.

They pulled back again, both breathing heavily, foreheads together once more, Crowley’s hand resting on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, Aziraphale’s hand on the back of Crowley’s. The angel was smiling, wide and exultant and _joyful_ and Crowley’s heart sang in response.

“You’re beautiful,” Aziraphale’s voice was laced in desire, his trembling hands going up to push Crowley’s jacket from his shoulders. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

Crowley felt the flush in his cheeks at that comment. “Angel...” he breathed.

“You are,” the jacket was off, draped carefully over the back of the chair. “You always have been. A temptation from the very first moment I lay eyes on you.” There was no bite in his words, though, nothing but layers and layers of love. He dropped a quick kiss to Crowley’s stunned lips before moving to bottom of his lambswool jumper, slowly, gently sliding it up, his eyes on Crowley as he himself followed Aziraphale’s fingers at work. Inch by inch, his torso was revealed to the angel, a torso that Aziraphale had seen so many times before, but never like this, never with this intimacy. Familiar, but _new_. Crowley couldn’t help but remember all the sharp edges, all the concave sweeps, couldn’t help worrying what Aziraphale would think.

Eventually, it was too much, and, as the jumper was swept over his head and draped across his jacket, he moved in for another kiss, blocking Aziraphale’s view of his imperfections. The kiss was slow and deep, tongues tentatively sliding together, Aziraphale’s hands sliding over warm skin, Crowley’s fingers tracing the familiar texture of garments, feeling the hint of warmth beneath. Wanting more of that heat, he reached down to tug shirt tails from trousers, having to take a step backwards as Aziraphale instantly stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, Crowley standing, bare-chested and open-mouthed, watching him.

Smiling softly, Aziraphale then opened the button fly of his Edwardian trousers, holding Crowley’s eye as he pushed them down his legs, toeing off his shoes and then sliding them over his feet along with his socks. Wearing nothing but his cotton striped boxer shorts with an obvious tent in them, he reached and got hold of Crowley’s hand, leading them both to the bed.


	24. Soho, May, 2020 - Part Two

For just a second, Crowley paused on the edge of the duvet covered mattress, his heart thudding in desire and trepidation, but then Aziraphale kissed him again, and a warm palm smoothed over his prominent ribs brought him back, and together, they knelt on the bed, lips sliding over lips as the kiss flowed between them.

Time seemed to stand still as they slowly, gently, thoroughly, opened each other up, and just as slowly, Aziraphale laid Crowley down, pulling away from the kiss until he was kneeling up, the hairs on his knees prickling Crowley’s ribs, one steady hand spreading warmth across his heaving chest, the other resting gently on the prominent edge of a demin-covered hip. “Okay?” he asked, and Crowley nodded, those two points of contact grounding him, infusing him with love. Aziraphale smiled, Crowley’s heart flip-flopped in his chest and he shuffled under that steady gaze, two thuds sounding out as he used the slightest of miracles to get his boots to slide off and land on the thick carpet.

Aziraphale’s smile widened and he leant forward to press a gentle kiss onto Crowley’s flat abdomen, just above his needless navel and he couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath as his muscles jumped under the angel’s touch. Aziraphale looked at him, Crowley watched his obvious swallow, watched him steady himself before he asked, “Are you ready, dearest?” his voice wavering slightly.

Suddenly, inexplicably, Crowley was gripped with nerves, his heart almost thudding out of his chest. _You wanted this,_ he reminded himself. _You asked for it! Come on, demon, get a grip…_ He nodded, slowly, deliberately, and popped the button of his jeans, drew down the zipper and pushed away the black denim.

He didn’t usually bother with underwear, didn’t really have the need, but tonight… He kept his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s expression, watched carefully, carefully, as he shimmied his jeans down, concentrating hard to make sure that his black silk trunks stayed where they were. Hooded blue eyes watched him, the tiniest tip of pink tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Carefully, Crowley slid the waistband of the trousers down, as far as he could reach, before Aziraphale took over, gently smoothing his palms over tense muscles, dropping his head to kiss along the wake of his movement, Crowley closing his eyes and forcing himself to breathe steadily at the feeling of dry lips over the hairs on his thighs.

Eventually they were both dressed in nothing but their underwear, Crowley’s socks having gone the same way as his trousers. Crowley was hard in his underwear, as was the angel. Hard and leaking a wet patch into the expensive black silk but, shit, he was so bloody tense. Nervous even. What the fuck was wrong with him? He needed to loosen up before- _shit_ , one look at Aziraphale’s expression, the furrows in his brow and it was clear that it was too late, that the angel had noticed, that it was only a matter of time before he called a halt to the whole thing, _left_ even. Left Crowley for good… 

Aziraphale was sitting back on his heels, his own erection just starting to peek out of the gap in the front of his shorts, and, as their eyes met, he smiled at Crowley. It wasn’t a happy smile though, not like before, it was sad, and understanding and accommodating, and Crowley’s stomach twisted – why was he such a fuck up?

“I’m okay,” he stated, desperately trying prove to the angel that he _was_ , “I can do this, I-” A finger landed on his lips, silencing him and he blinked as Aziraphale’s smile became a little more natural, a little more fond.

“I know you are, dear,” he soothed and there was the tiniest shimmer of a miracle in the air as a bottle appeared in his hands. “Everything is going to be absolutely fine.”

Crowley stared at the bottle and his heart twisted in something like disappointment, but he ruthlessly ground it down. What the fuck did he have to be disappointed about? He was a demon, he was absolutely fucking blessed to have an angel willing to fuck him, willing, for the first time, to use human lube to open him up. What more was he wanting? What stupid hopes of human foreplay did he have that shouldn’t even exist within a demon?

Aziraphale smiled at him and there was the click of an opening lid and Crowley seized hold of himself. In the blink of an eye, he flipped over onto his belly (he knew the drill well enough by now), tilting his ass into the air and tugging his trunks down until the waist band was tucked under the slight curve of his bum. “Okay,” and why the fuck was his stupid voice shaking? “I’m ready.”

Silence.

Absolute silence, and Crowley started to cringe into himself wondering how on earth he’d done it wrong, wondering how long he needed to give it, offering his arse up like this, before he should just change into a snake and slither away to wait out the rest of the century in total humiliation. 

Then, just as it was becoming completely unbearable, there was a shaken voice and a tentative, “Crowley...?” and why did Aziraphale sound so bloody broken?

Crowley couldn’t look at him, but he shuffled his arse just a little bit higher, his cheek pressed hard into the pillow, his elbow’s braced. “I’m ready,” he repeated, “go on.”

Still Aziraphale didn’t move. Crowley pressed his eyes closed, his attempt at a calming inhale turning into something a little too much like a sob and then there was movement, shuffling and bouncing springs and then a warm body pressed right up against his side, right along his full length, a shaking hand gently drawing his boxers back up, pushing his bum back down.

“No, no, no, no...” there were obvious tremors in Aziraphale’s voice and a kiss was pressed to Crowley’s shoulder. “That’s not the way that this works, darling. Not anymore and really,” the sigh was explosive, “I should _never_ have made it like that for us in the first place, oh dear me, what have I done? What _have_ I done?”

Crowley couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the crushing tone of Aziraphale’s voice, couldn’t stand the fear he had that, despite all of his efforts to check, he was _still_ wrong and the angel categorically did not want him; he couldn’t stand the confusion, the pain, the emotion of it all. He flipped onto his hip, his eyes holding onto Aziraphale’s. “I’m sorry,” he was out of his depth, starting to panic, “I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what you want, I don’t know how to make this good for you!”

There was a hand in his hair then, taking with it just the very edge of his panic and he closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe, his heart to settle as much as it could. Aziraphale kissed him, just a closed press of lips on lips and then, “I want to love you, every single inch of you. I want to draw it out. Make it perfect for you. For us.”

Crowley let out a shaking breath, “But I was supposed to be making it perfect for _you_.”

Another kiss, the hand in his hair scratching at his scalp slightly, “But that’s not how it works, love. This is new. This is shared. This is for _us_. And there’s absolutely no rush.”

No rush. Was he _rushing_ them now? After six thousand years of doing it all wrong? Maybe he was, but then the thought of _waiting even longer for this_ … Swallowing hard, Crowley hauled on his courage. “I think – ” he started, then shook his head and tried again. “I just, well, I suppose it’s a lot of pressure all of a sudden, and, I suppose, I’d just feel better if it were already _over_ …”

Silence again, Aziraphale studying him, a noticeable frown creasing his forehead, Crowley felt a nervous sweat break out along the ridges of his spine.

“Do you trust me?” the angel eventually asked, and then it was Crowley’s turn to frown.

“Trust you? Angel, you know I do,” he shook his head, “You are, literally, the only being in the whole of existence I do trust.”

Aziraphale smiled, nodded, stroked his cheek. “Then let me show you how this can be for us. Trust me and, if you’re nervous, let me lead you and I promise you, my darling, I absolutely promise you, this will be wonderful.”

Was that true? Did Crowley trust him? Absolutely.

Had that trust worked out over the last few months? Absolutely.

So, could he do this? Let Aziraphale lead, let him guide them through this latest maze of relationship woes?

The question wasn’t even worth asking.

He nodded.

Aziraphale smiled and dropped to nuzzle the warm skin of his neck. “Thank you, my darling.”

Crowley shivered as the words skittered over his skin, and any objection that Crowley might have planned was lost the moment that Aziraphale started suckling gently on the side of his throat. 

He went slowly, gradually working down to the sensitive spot where Crowley’s neck met his shoulder, and Crowley found it harder and harder to hold onto that worry as the hand in his hair continued to scratch at his scalp, the other hand ghosting backwards and forwards over the back silk that covered his arse. Not able to stop himself, Crowley tilted his head, opening up more of his neck for Aziraphale to kiss, his own hands reaching to cling to a solid shoulder, a plush hip, keeping himself grounded as the emotion continued to climb.

Aziraphale shifted then, kneeling up, dislodging the hand in Crowley’s hair, Crowley’s hand on his shoulder, and leaned forward, warm tongue tracing the outline of then very first prominent vertebrae, right in the centre of the place where Crowley’s wings would erupt. Crowley couldn’t beat back the sigh, the noise of pure pleasure, that escaped him, and he felt Aziraphale’s smile against his skin.

The kisses continued, even as he felt the angel groping around on the bed next to him, looking for the lube no doubt, and just an edge of anxiety fluttered carelessly through his belly. There was the noise of a carefully popped lid, the sudden burst of lavender and the sound of Aziraphale slowly rubbing his hands together. 

“Lie still,” Aziraphale’s voice whispered through the silence of the room, “I’m going to give you a back massage.”

A wave of anxiety rushed through Crowley’s corporation and he felt his fingers curl into fists at his sides. A back massage… No one had ever massaged him before, not on his back, not anywhere. In fact, no one had ever really _touched_ him before, not deliberately, not in a concentrated manner, never anything more than a fleeting touch or a squeeze or maybe a hurried blow job… Would he even be able to tolerate it?

Before he could even start to put any of that into words, though, Aziraphale was shifting, leaning forward, not straddling him, thank fuck, just leaning over and pressing his warm, slick hands up over wing joints, pushing in a little and… ohhhh… Crowley flushed as his rambled thoughts abruptly stopped and he absolutely made that noise out loud.

It was… Crowley did not have words to describe how he felt as, Aziraphale slowly, _lovingly_ , rubbed firm but gentle circles into the taut flesh around his shoulders. Slowly, all the anxiety started to leech away, all the tension Crowley could sometimes feel when he was being touched bled out through his pores with every sweep of Aziraphale’s palms. It was liberating, even, to lie there, eyes closed, so exposed, so vulnerable, so _trusting_ , as another being held everything he was in the palms of their hands. Literally. _Redemptive_ , almost, and Crowley felt his cheeks flush at the forbidden thought. He seeped into the mattress, every sweep of Aziraphale’s hands wringing more poison from him, every flex of clever fingers driving the tension away – ratchetting the desire ever upwards.

The room was quiet. Soho below them could have been a million miles away with the soundproofing that Crowley had called into being. It was late on a warm Saturday evening and the café culture would be in full swing, laughter and shouting, music and the odd disagreement, but up on the third floor of an unassuming building in the heart of the district, two supernatural creatures had created a world all of their own. 

Crowley’s breathing was soft and regular, little huffs that were falling into time with the sweeping strokes down his back. A kiss was pressed into the centre of his spine, a very sensitive place for angels and Fallen alike. Too much pressure and wings could be called into existence against their owner’s will, but Crowley didn’t even flinch, the complete and utter trust he felt swirling through his body like a hug from the inside out. Slowly the hands moved further down, and Crowley could feel finger tips tracing his silvery scars, memories, not only of his Fall, but of the brutality of angels and demons alike, all seared into his skin. He didn’t like acknowledging them, he didn’t like anyone ever seeing them, when he’d lain with humans he’d always used a miracle to hide them, but now, with Aziraphale… well, the angel had already seen them a million times already, what was wrong with allowing him to study them like this?

The fingers tracked further still, further down until they reached the ruched silk of Crowley’s trunks and then he froze, holding his breath, waiting, until they shifted again, lifting off him, another burst of lavender before they settled, together on his left thigh, sweeping up and down again, running through the wiry hairs, making Crowley shudder.

“Everything alright, dearest?” Aziraphale’s voice was deliberately light, but Crowley could hear the molten trace of arousal running through it.

“Yeah,” Crowley forced his eyes open, but stared at the grey walls, rather than at the angel. “’s actually nice.”

He felt Aziraphale pause, just for the briefest of beats. “You’ve never had a massage before?”

Crowley laughed, not exactly carefree, but not completely bitter either. “What do you think?” _Who in their right mind would offer a massage to a_ demon _?_

“But,” Aziraphale’s voice was tighter than before, “it’s alright?”

“Yeah,” the answer just rushed out of Crowley with a long exhale and he heard Aziraphale’s answering chuckle.

“Good.”

By the time those questing fingers finally reached the finely tapered bones of Crowley’s ankle, he was just about melted into the duvet, his eyes closed again, his mind humming in contentment. Carefully, the angel shifted, and Crowley could feel him creeping, with obvious caution into the gap between his calves, another burst of lavender and then the journey started once more from his other thigh, downwards again, long, sweeping strokes.

“My serpent,” the words were fond, quietly spoken and this time it was Crowley who chuckled.

“Always.”

“Graceful and strong,” there was a smile in that voice. “I’ve never seen anyone move like you, no matter what your form. You’re so fluid. Every movement, an art form.”

Crowley flushed and retreated into silence. He knew Aziraphale wasn’t mocking him, but still, it was a lot to accept.

Aziraphale’s hands dipped into the sensitive hollow at the back of Crowley’s right knee, the knee whose tendons had been sliced clean through during a particularly eventful trip back to Hell once. Crowley had healed them well enough, just as soon as he’d put enough distance between himself and the nutter with the sword, but still, sometimes they twinged in pain and he stiffened slightly, wary in case Aziraphale hurt him, but no, the touch was featherlight, hardly there and then the angel had moved onto the swell of his calf. Crowley wondered how Aziraphale just _knew_.

The silence persisted, but it was far from uncomfortable and that was one of the many wonderful things that Crowley valued in this friendship, this _relationship_. He’d never been particular socially _fluent_ , he was well aware that he often appeared that way, but not a single being, not even the angel, would ever appreciate just how much effort that had often taken. But he and Aziraphale, well, they could spend hours in silence, in front of the fire, on a park bench, laid out on a picnic rug under the shade of a spreading oak, and it was never, ever hard. Having that one space in all of creation where Crowley could just _be_ … well, he doubted that Aziraphale would ever comprehend how much that had meant to him.

Crowley’s thoughts soon returned to the present as he felt Aziraphale faltering once more, back to the scene of his earlier dilemma pausing, fingertips brushing the hem lines of the silken shorts. Crowley did not even twitch. He lay perfectly still, his breath slow and measured, his heart perfectly regular and waited, not able to hold in the sigh of relief as Aziraphale’s fingers gently, cautiously, crept further up, sliding under the black silk, all that warmth suddenly cupping his narrow buttocks.

“Oh, Crowley...” the sigh drifted out across his back, drawing gooseflesh into life and encouraging a surge of hot blood into his cock.

A lump rose in his throat as he felt Aziraphale shudder above him and suddenly he was concerned. “Okay?” he asked, his voice tight and hoarse.

“Perfect,” Aziraphale leaned forward to kiss his wing joints once more and, this time, Crowley could feel the hot press of an answering erection against his slick skin. “Just _perfect_ , my dear.”

Crowley could only nod.

The silence swirled around them, full of things unsaid, and maybe even more powerful because of it, and Aziraphale’s hands kneaded and squeezed and smoothed until the oil ran dry on his palms. Then, he slowly pulled his hands free, took an audible breath and Crowley was ready when the whispered, “Lift up,” reached his ears. 

He lifted without a pause, just high enough for Aziraphale to slide his boxers down once more, pressing the waistband down into the mattress to ease it over his swollen cock. He swallowed, hard, answering a rough, “Yeah,” to the shaky, “Alright?” he was asked.

There had been enough arousal in that single word to dry Crowley’s throat.

Once Crowley was settled onto the bed once more and Aziraphale had whispered the black silk down his legs and away, the massage resumed. This time, the angel was knelt right in between Crowley’s knees and as much as it would have been nice to have a little contact with him, Crowley remained relieved that he wasn’t sitting across him, he wasn’t sure how he would cope with feeling trapped, not quite yet anyway.

The hands had returned to his back, either side of Crowley’s vertebrae, feathering carefully around the wing-release zone, and pressing harder as he got to the base of spine, this time, dropping low enough on every sweep so slide across the warm swell of his buttocks. 

That comfortable silence fell once more, Crowley with his eyes open, watching the faint shadow of the angel on his wall as he kneaded and stroked, his own eyes resolutely on Crowley’s oiled flesh.

“You’re beautiful,” he repeated, his voice strangely ethereal.

Crowley only huffed in embarrassed disbelief.

Eventually, Crowley noticed that Aziraphale was being drawn, again and again, to the crease that lay between his buttocks, the crease that, so far this day, had remained untouched. Images danced in his head, images that had fed his masturbation for years. The angel’s fingers sliding down there, using his palms to spread him wide and letting his tongue flick over the puckered star he’d find waiting. He could picture Aziraphale bending to lick him and kiss him over and over until Crowley shook apart for him. They’d done plenty of oral-anal stuff in their long and upside-down relationship, but it had never even had the slightest sniff of _mutual_ about it. Crowley banished his daydreams for now, though, he knew Aziraphale’s speed settings well enough to understand that none of that would be happening today. He was okay with that, though, because he had _hope_ , so much hope, just as long as he managed to do _this_ night correctly, then he would be a deliriously happy being.

“Darling,” Aziraphale’s voice drew him, softly, from his day dreams and he replied with a clumsy, “Hmm?” The felt the tremor of a chuckle and then, “Could you turn over for me? Do you think?”

Again the flush and really, what the hell was that about? Aziraphale had been looking at him naked and aroused for thousands of years. Their coming together had often been clinical, never cruel, but Crowley had often been asked to do things he felt uncomfortable with at the time.

_‘Stand over there, dear, let me look at you.’_

_‘Lean over like that, will you? It’s easier for me to get inside you.’_

_‘Bend this way, dear boy, I do like the way your erection hangs when you do that.’_

_‘Kneel up, just like that, yes, so I can see you.’_

_‘Move over slightly, dear, in front of the mirror, that’s it. I want to watch you come.’_

It had never been _cruel_ , but it had never been _kind_ , and now, Crowley was torn in two. Of course he wanted to comply, he wanted absolutely everything that Aziraphale was willing to offer him, always had, always would, but, he was also absolutely aching for this to be different. Which it had been, so far. Which Aziraphale had promised him it would be. Which he needed to _trust_ to get. 

He felt Aziraphale’s hands slip down over the sharp angles of hip bones, then took in a breath, steadying himself, before he shifted, twisting the upper half of his body first and reaching for Aziraphale with both hands, drawing the angel down to kiss, whilst the rest of his body followed and straightened out, naked and aroused and more vulnerable than he had ever let himself be in all of their times together.

He could tell that Aziraphale wanted to draw back, that he wanted to look, but for now he just couldn’t, not yet, and so he held him, two shaking hands on the sides of his face, kissing him thoroughly, trying through his lips and tongue to steal away every rational thought, to keep Aziraphale happy even as Crowley gathered his courage once more.

Finally, he felt ready, almost, and they stopped, but Aziraphale didn’t draw back, not straight away. Instead, he rested their foreheads together and smiled into Crowley’s serpent eyes, taking Crowley’s hands in his own, _understanding_ , before he eventually straightened up, holding Crowley’s gaze until the very last moment. Crowley watched. He saw those blue eyes jump straight down his body, saw them widen at the evidence of his arousal, watched the pupils dilate, watched the heavy swallow and a swell of pride ran through him.

He’d done that. The sight of _his_ body had done that. It was a lot.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale’s voice was rough as he manoeuvred out of his spot between Crowley’s legs, both hands still joined, and gently lowered himself down until they were flush on the bed. “Come here,” he whispered and tugged. Crowley let himself roll easily and settled himself on his hip until they were pressed belly to belly, and couldn’t help the surprised raise of an eyebrow as Aziraphale pushed closer, burying his face into the crook of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” the words were whispered into Crowley’s throat and he tensed, fear back to pounding through his veins, even as he brought his arms up to hold Aziraphale against him. _What had he done wrong? What the fuck had he done wrong?_

“Sorry?” he had to force the words out through the tightness of his throat, “I have absolutely no idea what you could possibly have to be sorry for, here.” He thought through another panicked moment but still came up empty, “It must be me,” he surmised. “I should be the one who-”

“No,” yet again, a warm finger stole his words and Crowley swallowed, eyes widening as Aziraphale, tears standing out in the angelic blue, pinned him with a stare. “Don’t you dare,” he whispered, his voice urgent, angry. “Don’t you dare try to take any of the blame for this, my darling.”

Crowley blinked: confused didn’t even start to cover how he felt.

“This is my fault, all my fault,” a tear overran his eye and streaked down his cheek, “I was just looking at you there, so beautiful, so trusting, so _stunning_ , and it hit me, how many years, how many _centuries_ , I refused to really _see_ you. How many centuries I refused to see _this_ … I’ve been such a fool.”

Crowley kissed him, pressed his own lips to an angel’s and said the words he’d never tire of saying, “I love you,” Aziraphale offered him a watery smile. “And maybe, if we’d done things differently, we wouldn’t be here now, and I _like_ being here now, with you.”

The watery smile widened, “Oh, my _dearest_ dear, I like being here with you, also. So much so.”

They laughed, and Aziraphale pushed back into his neck, Crowley feeling warm, angelic air huffed against his skin even as a warm, angelic hand stroked up and down his oiled back.

For a few minutes they were silent again, Crowley feeling Aziraphale tipping, just ever so slightly, into him, getting the tiniest little bit of friction for their cocks and suddenly, his bravery surged up and over spilt into the silence. “I’ve never done this before,” he admitted.

Aziraphale pulled back and frowned at him. “My darling, I _know_ that’s not true – I was there.”

Crowley huffed, “No, not the _you_ , side of things, I meant the… the…” and then he tailed off, his cheeks flushing, his vocabulary failing him.

Aziraphale stroked his hair, understanding rippling through him, “The intimacy?” he offered quietly, and Crowley just nodded.

“Not with _anyone_?”

The flush deepened with the single shake of the head, and he felt Aziraphale deflate against him, “Oh, dearest, I’m so sorry-”

“No!” the pain in Crowley’s chest flared again at that, but not for _himself,_ for his angel. “I’m not telling you this so that you can beat yourself up over it all again,” Aziraphale blinked at him. “I’m telling you so you… ugk!” his words died in his throat, his cheeks positively flamed and shame ran through him; what had he even mentioned any of this shit for???

“So I can understand?” Aziraphale’s voice was gentle, as was his hand in Crowley’s hair, “If it’s hard for you? So that I know how special this all is for us both?”

Crowley nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Thank you, darling,” a kiss was pressed to his lips, the hand in his hair scratched into his scalp. “Thank you so much. This, _all of this_ , it’s the most incredible gift you could ever give me.”

Crowley moved at that, lifting his head to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, trying to project everything he felt through his own, “Aziraphale... _angel_...” that’s all there was, nothing more, no more words were needed. He surged up to capture Aziraphale’s mouth again and Aziraphale let him, welcomed him in and hauled him even closer. Crowley knew now that they both understood: this night wasn’t just a turning point in their relationship, it was a turning point in their whole existence.

It was the moment when Crowley finally got to experience that there was more to sex than coming, the moment he accepted he was _good_.

It was the moment when Aziraphale could finally believe that he was not alone, that there was a partner here for him, one who was strong enough to hold him, to fight him or to fight _for_ him, one who would never, ever let him be alone again.

Turning point. A huge, great big, fuck-off turning point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last bit tomorrow!


	25. Soho, May, 2020 - Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not - I hate writing sex scenes. I really don't know what happened to make this one the l-o-n-g-e-s-t shag ever!!!! :D
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read along with this, it's been fun, and I appreciate all your comments. 
> 
> Look after yourselves in these crazy times. x

As they kissed, Crowley felt that pressure baring down on him, but he didn’t buckle. Aziraphale needed him to be there, be his partner, and he could do it, he absolutely could do it. And afterwards? Well, when he’d done it well enough, when he’d crawled through these emotions so alien to them both, then the Crowley who came out of the other side, the _relationship_ that came out the other side, would be infinitely stronger. Better.

He let the kiss build and build until there was a degree of looseness to Aziraphale’s shoulders that had been lost and then he laid him back, pushing him down into the duvet and lifting up. “I love you,” he whispered and felt a thrill of excitement run through him at the way Aziraphale’s pupils widened a little at that.

Aziraphale smiled at him, the smile that Crowley loved best, the one that lit him up from the inside, and nodded, “I love you, too,” he whispered, and flipped their positions. Crowley, flat on his back now, laughed out loud, the sound alien in the hushed silence of his bedroom. And then – the atmosphere changed, thickened, _heightened_ , Crowley’s laughter choking to a close in his throat as Aziraphale reached out to trail light patterns over the dip in his chest, right over his sternum, holding his eyes, whispering those precious words, “Oh, how I love you.”

They slid into silence, each now studying the other carefully; Crowley watching the soft lines to Aziraphale’s brow return, Aziraphale following the delicate course of his fingers as they danced over Crowley’s chest. His hand crept down, Crowley pictured what the angel could see, the concave stomach, prominent ribs and pale skin, and suddenly, it didn’t bother him, not when he could see the absolute reverence in the angel’s expression.

Aziraphale’s fingers stopped at the ridge of the pronounced vee which led to Crowley’s straining erection and then drifted back up again, over the ridges and valleys, further up, slowly, slowly heading for a swollen, rosy nipple. Crowley’s breath held in his throat, the whole world seemed to pause on its axis as Aziraphale, finally, and with the tip of one finger, circled the pink nub, his eyes staring in wonder as it stood up to his touch, before they flicked to Crowley’s.

They both knew what this was, Aziraphale had never stimulated him like this before, with intent, with _care_ , it was wonderful, and Crowley caught the way that the angel’s cock twitched violently against his thigh. His own eyes were only partially open, like his mouth, and he was now staring down at Aziraphale’s finger, the moistness of his lips, the flush to his cheeks and his hooded eyes all indicators of his arousal. Aziraphale’s cock twitched again.

Then, adjusting his position and with his eyes fixed on Crowley, Aziraphale moved his hand once more, trailing across the pale skin, back across the dip of his sternum, finding the other nipple by touch alone and this time gently squeezing it between forefinger and thumb. Crowley let out a long sigh, arching his chest up towards Aziraphale’s hand, closing his eyes and sinking back into the pillow. “That feels amazing.”

It was just the encouragement Aziraphale needed, Crowley felt him glowing with pleasure, even through his closed eyes, and then he leaned forward, Crowley could only wonder what he was doing before a clever tongue flicked out over a taut nipple and his hand leapt in response, landing in Aziraphale’s hair, gently keeping him there, his gasp of, “ _Angel_...” lighting Aziraphale up once more.

For long minutes there was near silence, just the odd huff or suckling noise, and the two beings barely moved, Aziraphale’s head switching from nipple to nipple, Crowley’s hands gently holding him close. Finally, Aziraphale lifted up. By now, Crowley’s nipples shone with saliva and were both straining upwards, almost as if they were searching for the tongue that had abandoned them. Their eyes met, Crowley stunned at the lust and the longing clear in the angel’s depths. He reached up for him and they fell into another kiss messy and a little desperate, Aziraphale’s hand going back and continuing the job his tongue had started, rolling and flicking and squeezing Crowley’s nipples until he was whimpering with need into the kiss.

Aziraphale eventually pulled back and shuffled upwards until he was kneeling at Crowley’s side, Crowley’s eyes drawn to the damp patch on the front of the angel’s shorts. He leaned in again and, starting at Crowley’s neck, began a trail of kisses, over collar bone and sternum, finding a nipple on the way down, tracing the edges of ribs, his fingers mapping the way and following behind, tracking the saliva damp skin his mouth left in its wake. Crowley’s eyes were on the ceiling, his breath stuttering in his throat, his hand in Aziraphale’s hair, his skin alive with every touch of the angel and his cock drooling and dripping as it pulsed in neglected desire.

“Aziraphale…” it was all he could force out.

“I know, darling, I know,” the angel sounded as wrecked as he felt. “Let me though, won’t you? Let me do this now?” 

The lips continued downwards, missing Crowley’s midsection, causing him to keen in frustration as Aziraphale shuffled along until he was at thigh level, then he dropped his lips and started again. Like his hands before him, Aziraphale’s mouth trailed through the light dusting of hairs as it travelled down a trembling thigh. He took his time on the insides of thighs, switching from one to the other when, obviously very sensitive, Crowley twitched and moaned and spread his legs wider under the angel’s attention. Then then he moved on, trailing kisses around the shape of a knee cap, right down the smooth top of a foot before starting back up again as Crowley shook and trembled beneath him.

Eventually, after what felt like an age to Crowley, Aziraphale was back in-between his thighs, and right on the very edge of desperate, Crowley opened up for him, pulling up his knees and opening his legs, the hint clear for the angel to see. It seemed he was in luck as Aziraphale instantly accepted the silent invitation, shuffling forward, bending himself almost in half so that he could kiss and nip and lick at all the tender flesh open to him.

“Angel!” Crowley’s twitched and writhed under his touch, looking down, imploringly, only to find hooded eyes watching him, angel lips flushed and shining in saliva – he had to screw his eyes shut else come on the spot.

Aziraphale moved higher.

He was almost there now, almost ready to touch and Crowley was fisting the duvet, breathing heavily, imagining what that first touch of Aziraphale’s tongue would feel like. He’d had it before, he knew that, but not like this, never like this, and he knew it was going to be so much _more_. All he could hear was his own laboured breathing, all he could smell was the musk of their shared arousal and it was sending him crazy.

Then, there was nothing. He looked down, straight into Aziraphale’s eyes and knew that _despite everything_ the angel was waiting for a sign. Crowley’s eyes ran over his own flushed and writhing body, his peaked nipples, his straining cock, the smears of pre-come all over his stomach and wanted to hiss in frustration – _did the damn angel want a written invite_??? He flopped back onto the pillow, holding Aziraphale’s eyes as best he could and just whispered the single word, “ _Please…_ ”

It seemed to be enough.

Slowly, as Crowley was back to fisting the sheets and staring at the ceiling, he felt the angel edge up a little further. He was close now, so close, and – oh! – a gasp was pulled from him as Aziraphale’s nose bumped the underside of a one of his balls, and yet, again he almost came. Aziraphale didn’t pause though, strangely surprised, Crowley arched and moaned out loud as Aziraphale dragged the broad flat of his tongue right up the tight little ball, making it lift under his touch. Then he moved straight to the other, using the tip this time to circle and tease before licking across them both. Crowley’s hands abandoned the bedding and were in all that golden-spun hair keeping him there but nudging him up, just a little, just a bit, just wanting that bit higher...

Aziraphale stayed where he was though, resisting Crowley’s hints, and instead choosing to alternate between tonguing a flat perineum and mouthing and nuzzling at Crowley’s balls, every movement drawing something embarrassingly like a whimper from Crowley’s throat.

“Angel, _please_...” Crowley’s voice, rough with lust, broke into the silence and there must have been enough desperation, or permission, in there for Aziraphale adjust his position once more, a pause, like the tipping point of a roller coaster, and then gently, tenderly, finding the base of Crowley’s thick cock with his tongue and pushing himself flat, making the largest surface area he could, before slowly dragging the warm muscle right up the spasming length.

Crowley’s reaction was spectacular, and he was glad that Aziraphale had placed his hands on his hips, or he would have probably put the angel’s eye out. He cried out and the pleasure was so intense that, for a moment, he thought he’d come. He hadn’t though, was back to squeezing the life out of duvet beneath him as Aziraphale’s tongue reached the smooth head of his desperate cock. There was no pause, and Crowley had to drag everything he could into making sure that he still didn’t explode as the angel swirled his tongue over the smoothly stretched skin. He moaned again, jerking a good few inches off the bed as Aziraphale flicked out with just the tip and lapped up the pre-cum which Crowley fuzzily realised was flowing embarrassingly freely. 

“Oh, _angel_ , please...” he whispered and that sound, the sound of him _begging_ for Aziraphale, seemed to light the angel on fire. They looked at each other again, Crowley’s heart leaping at the way that Aziraphale’s eyes, pupils completely blown, were watching him with such desperate longing in them. Whatever the angel saw in him must have been equally inspiring as, without pause for a second, he dropped down and took Crowley inside him, adjusting himself once or twice before finally being able to let him right up into his throat.

Crowley cried out, unable to stop his hands leaping from the duvet and into Aziraphale’s hair, holding him still while his hips started frantically pumping. Aziraphale’s gagging brought him back to himself and he stuttered to a halt, hands banished back to the bed and his attempts at an apology effectively silenced as Aziraphale took him in again, slower this time, swallowing him down and pulling a whine from the very depths of his being. He was almost lost now, his eyes shut tight, his hips rolling on their own, but somewhere deep inside himself he knew he had seconds before he was so far gone that he’d never be able to come back, and that was not the way that he needed this to go. Drawing on his millennia of self-control, Crowley placed his hands on Aziraphale’s head and lifted, watching as Aziraphale rose, swallowing hard at the sight of his own shining cock falling free of the angel’s mouth.

For a second, he waited, eyes closed, wondering if he’d left it too late, if he was going to come anyway, but then it all drifted away and he opened up, meeting Aziraphale and seeing the absolute mortification etched into his face. “Shit, Aziraphale,” his voice was rough, “No, not that. It’s just… in me? I need to come with you-”

But Aziraphale didn’t let him get any further than that. He lay down over his skinny, pale and sweat streaked body and swallowed Crowley’s mouth with his own, kissing and kissing and telling him how much it didn’t matter, how much he loved him with every tender stroke of his tongue. It was messy and frantic and nothing had ever been so close to absolute perfection before: Crowley thought he was going to cry.

They shuffled around on the bed, without stopping their kiss, without relinquishing their hold on the other, until Aziraphale was kneeling between Crowley’s thighs, Crowley curled up towards him, and then, they stopped. Aziraphale was breathing hard, his eyes fixed on Crowley’s as he carefully pulled him down the bed, sliding him up his own thighs until Crowley was laid on his back again, his hips nestled in Aziraphale’s lap, his legs over the angel’s hips. Aziraphale opened his hand and bottle of lube was suddenly sat there but they didn’t break eye contact at all as the angel squirted a generous blob into his hands, rubbing them together and, Crowley just had enough time to brace himself before two hands were stroking up and down the down the whole length of his straining cock, dragging a whine from deep within him.

“Good?” he whispered at Crowley’s choked reaction, a desperate nod all he got in reply.

He didn’t linger, for which Crowley was grateful, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to hold back his orgasm again with much more of _that_ going on. Instead, the angel grabbed the bottle once more and squeezed more into his hands adding a generous quantity onto his own thigh for easy access no doubt, before meeting Crowley’s eyes with his own. “You don’t mind me doing this the human way?”

_Oh, God, no. The human way? Shit, angel, I’d hoped, I’d hoped so much for that, from the very first time you’d ever touched me…_ But instead of letting all of that heart-breaking neediness out into the world, Crowley just shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together.

Aziraphale nodded, gave Crowley a fluttery little smile, then, taking the first little scoop in two fingers, he gently found that spot under Crowley’s balls once more.

Crowley had held his breath, but he didn’t tense as those fingers stroked his soft perineum, or even as they crept further down. His hands were tight in the duvet, but he couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath as Aziraphale was suddenly there – at his most intimate of places. For a moment, neither of them moved, but then the angel withdrew, going back for another scoop of lube and Crowley let out a sigh of frustration.

As he watched, Aziraphale shuffled forward even further, just about bending himself in half as his finger went back to the muscled opening and his mouth dipped over Crowley’s cock-head. As the finger gently asked for entrance, Crowley actually impaled himself, surging forward in desperation.

That initial breeching over, Aziraphale stilled, allowing Crowley a moment to get himself back under control. His breathing was harsh, his hips wouldn’t stop flexing, but he wasn’t at risk of coming, not in the next ten seconds at any rate.

The angel was thorough, flicking his tongue against the underside of Crowley’s cock whilst his fingers stretched and massaged, and Crowley began to relax into it all, the pleasure on his cock, the delicious burn inside him, just letting himself float, letting himself bask in all the care and attention. That gentle bliss was brought to an abrupt stop, however, the second that Aziraphale found Crowley’s prostate; one stroke across the little walnut-like nub where all the nerves were bundled together and Crowley was bucking up off the bed again, a shocked, “Oh!” all he could manage and the burst of pre-cum in Aziraphale’s mouth having him lifting off again.

“I’m sorry,” the angel whispered, and all Crowley could think was, _that mouth was just around my cock…_ but then he stroked the little nub again and all thought left Crowley’s head.

The next few minutes (hours? days?) were a blur as the angel sucked his cock and played with his prostate and all Crowley could do was writhe and moan and hope to anyone that he wouldn’t come. Eventually, though, he managed to get enough brain cells together to gasp, “Enough!” and then to hiss, “More!” when he worried that the angel would misconstrue.

Aziraphale seemed to understand though as he let go the straining cock slip from his mouth and, instead, used his free hand to deliver another load of lube to the point where Crowley’s body swallowed him in. Crowley was back to fisting the duvet, his legs spread as far as he could get them in invitation, his eyes shut tight as he writhed and bucked on Aziraphale’s fingers.

He heard a desperate, “Shit!” and looked down just in time to see Aziraphale miracle his damp undershorts away and, before Crowley had any chance to admire the sight of the angel’s arousal, Aziraphale had edged forward, lining himself up, whispering, “Crowley, dearest, look at me, please.”

Crowley did, how could he not, even as he felt the blunt head of the angel’s cock pushing at his stretched opening. He smiled as the angel placed one shaking hand on Crowley’s cheek, whispering, “I love you, my dear,” and Crowley’s stomach flipped in joy. Then slowly, their eyes locked together, Aziraphale smiled more brightly and he pressed forward.

For a moment, Crowley knew that his eyes were clouded in pain, he shut them immediately but almost hissed in frustration as Aziraphale stopped. He opened his eyes, connected with Aziraphale once more and pushed out a smile of his own. “It’s okay,” he promised, “It’s all okay.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly Aziraphale edged forward again, Crowley could feel the head of his cock pressing tighter and tighter against his opening, and then, with the tiniest of wet noises, it slid right in, almost two whole inches before the angel slammed the brakes on again, chest heaving, desperate eyes flicking up to meet Crowley’s.

Crowley laughed, a little burst of shocked joy as he realised that this was it, this was the first time he had never had. “Oh God,” he whispered, giving no fucks at all about invoking the Almighty’s name in such a manner, “Oh, God, Aziraphale. More. Please, more...”

The desperate words seemed to go straight to the angel’s cock and Crowley felt it twitch even as it was held so tightly in his grip. Aziraphale, his expression dripping in lust but ruthlessly controlled, held Crowley’s eyes, leaning over him so that he was all Crowley could see, and with his hand finding and stroking Crowley’s cock once more, he started filling him.

The deeper Aziraphale went, the easier it actually was and all the time they stared at each other, Crowley completely powerless to look away, those blue eyes holding him as tightly as the grip of his muscles around that heavenly cock. “That’s incredible,” he breathed.

At last they were there, he could feel a light sheen of sweat standing out all over his body and the wonderful snug completion of Aziraphale’s balls nestled up against his arse, but more than anything he could feel his love for the angel above him, the love the angel had for _him_ , and it threatened to swallow him whole.

“I feel you,” he whispered, his voice a strange mixture of wonder and arousal, his hips twisting just a little. “Right inside me.” It wasn’t the first time, but, oh, it _was_ his first time. Again Aziraphale twitched and Crowley felt a dark, primal completion swirl through him, “I’m yours,” time seemed to stand still. “God, Aziraphale. I’m all yours, only yours.”

Aziraphale froze, and the look on his face… Crowley’s heart was threatening to pound out of his chest at a look that said something even deeper and even more wonderful than his own words, at a look which promised him things he’d never even dared to hope for. And then, with a moan, low and almost painful in its intensity, Aziraphale came and Crowley let out a ragged sob, he couldn’t help it, it was all so intense, so beautiful and exquisite and epic and perfect. Aziraphale loved him. _Him!_ Aziraphale desired him. Wanted him and only him. _Claimed_ him.

The angel then surged forward, he was still hard, of course he was, little things like refractory periods weren’t important for beings such as they, and shoved himself into Crowley as deep as he possibly could, kissing his dry lips, delivering his love right into Crowley’s soul, over and over and over again.

Crowley threw his head back on the pillow and _wailed._

“That was incredible,” Aziraphale’s voice was breathless, “ _You_ are incredible. It’s never been like that for me, _for us_ , before, never so wonderful and perfect. Just like you.” His hips were moving quickly, gliding freely on the seminal fluid in Crowley’s body, snapping in, every thrust slamming against a sensitive prostate and Crowley cried out again, his back arching for more, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, his eyes rolling in his head.

“Yes!” it was the only word he could manage, but it must have portrayed his enthusiasm well enough as Aziraphale quickened his pace.

“You feel wonderful,” even through his bliss, Crowley could feel the way that Aziraphale was watching the way his expression fluttered with every stroke inside him. “Are you close, my darling?”

Crowley just nodded, his head jammed back into the pillow, his eyes scrunched shut.

“Come on then, dearest,” and how did the angel learn to tempt _like that_? A slick fist twisted over the head of Crowley’s cock. “Let go then, let me see you.”

Too far gone to answer, Crowley just lay back in the duvet, his body completely at Aziraphale’s mercy, open and trusting, and – in front of an angel? For an angel? Because of an angel? Who would have ever thought it. The rhythm from said angel’s hips was seductive, fast and smooth, every thrust pinpointing Crowley’s prostate, his left hand remained wrapped around Crowley’s cock, wringing bliss with every stroke whilst his right moved in smooth, ceaseless circles, ghosting over tense thighs and quivering stomach muscles, teasing peaked nipples and caressing heavy balls and all the time Crowley trembled under him, his orgasm stealing closer with every second.

“Aziraphale...!” the word was a plea, a desperate call for _something_.

“It’s okay, dear boy,” Aziraphale soothed, “I’ve got you, it’s alright to just let go, I’ve got you.”

Crowley blinked his eyes open, he knew that they would be completely reptilian as he had no brain facility free to divert and try to make them as ‘human’ as they usually were. He knew that Aziraphale would be able to see him as he was, he could feel that his tongue had forked, he probably had scales scattered all over his body, he knew that the sight would be repulsive, other-worldly, demonic, far too much for an angel to handle and yet… Aziraphale just looked straight into his bile-yellow eyes and smiled at him, smiled a smile full of love and Crowley broke right open. “Angel...!”

“I’ve got you.”

He let go.

Eyes squeezing closed once more, Crowley plummeted over the edge. He arched back on his heels, head holding his weight, hands fisting the duvet with vicious desperation and, as his helpless muscles twitched and shuddered, his cock surged up in Aziraphale’s hand and let loose with fast bursts of Milky-Way-white semen, splattering their star trails across Crowley’s chest. With every burst of better-than-heaven, Crowley cried out, wordless shouts of ecstasy, but the last one, as Aziraphale’s hand expertly persuaded one last effort from him, well, the last one was Aziraphale’s name, whispered like a blessing as every muscle in his body sagged and he sank, boneless into the duvet.

And then he floated. Quiet. Dark. Still. Untethered. He jerked aware once more, no, not untethered, never untethered any more. Secured. He was secure.

“Okay?” the angel’s voice was tentative as was the careful hand creeping across his ribs.

Crowley swallowed and breathed and tried to corral his scattered thoughts. It wasn’t easy though, not easy at all and he wasn’t quick enough to be able to head off the worried, “Crowley?” that jumped into the continued silence.

“Angel...” breath still short, heart still thumping, his veins literally fizzing, it was all he had.

“I’m here.”

Crowley felt him move then, shuffle around the bed, wiping Satan knew what mess off Crowley’s skin, settling down at his side, stroking him, tethering him, even as everything in Crowley just multiplied rather than died away.

“Dearest, are-”

And abruptly, it was all too much. With a half gasp, half sob, Crowley turned, flinging himself against Aziraphale, pressing his face into his chest, winding a leg around the angel’s, his fingers clinging, desperately to Aziraphale’s back.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale soothed him and Crowley could hear the terror in his voice, that fear at what he’d done. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… I’m sorry…”

He held him and soothed him, but Crowley could only sob, no explanations possible or even understood, all he could manage to try and reassure his worried angel, was a gasped, “Not you, not you,” even that being quickly swallowed by desperate, messy weeping.

Eventually the tide of violent emotion retreated and, bit by bit, Crowley wrestled back control of his corporation, forcing the sobs to peter out into nothing more than shaky breathing, and the silence returned, Aziraphale choosing to fill it with nothing more than soothing nonsense, pressing kisses into Crowley’s hair and just holding him close, waiting until he was ready to speak.

It was a long time coming. Humiliation and confusion warred within him – how could he feel as thrown by all of this when it was him who’d instigated it all? Didn’t he even know what he wanted anymore? But that was crazy, he wanted the angel.

“I’m sorry,” it seemed like a good enough place to start.

Aziraphale pressed another kiss into his sweat damp hair, “I have no idea what for.”

Another minute of silence crawled by.

“For this,” Crowley finally mumbled. “For acting like a damn girl.”

Aziraphale giggled and pulled him closer. “You didn’t.”

The silence was back after that, laced in confusion and Crowley knew that he had to do better.

“I am sorry though,” he offered. “I don’t know what this is.”

“You don’t?” and, oddly, Aziraphale seemed confused by _that_.

Crowley’s lifted his head, distressed enough to not even consider how he must look with his snake eyes rimmed in red, his face all swollen and blotchy from sobbing like a child. “No,” he watched Aziraphale watching him, hated the thought that he was ruining this moment for them both and shook his head frustratedly. “I don’t understand, it was perfect, it was all so _perfect_...” that admission pulled another sob from deep in his chest and he dropped his head once more, hiding himself in Aziraphale’s neck until he could push it back again. “And I don’t know what all _this_ is – not when being with you like _that_ was all I’ve ever wanted!”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale kissed him again, pulled him closer. “Don’t you see, my love, it’s _because_ it was all you ever wanted!”

“Th-,” Crowley had started to object, started to tell Aziraphale that he was wrong, that that was the most stupid thing he’d ever heard, but then it all washed through him, all the times he hadn’t allowed himself to feel, to want, to hurt, to love… all of those times, all of that stress, all of that denial building up for all those years… he shuddered. Yeah. Okay, maybe. He reached up to scrub at his eyes before pressing his own kiss to Aziraphale’s chest and snuggling back in, his grip slightly less intense, his eyes open, even if they were a little red-rimmed.

“And I’m so sorry that I made you wait so long. So sorry. I was unbearably cruel of me.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose, “Shut up, angel,” it felt right, snarking back at him like that even though they were both laid here naked and fucked out. It felt like them.

Aziraphale laughed a little and tugged him closer still, “Eloquent as ever, dear. Whatever should I do with you?”

“Keep me?” the words were out of his mouth without thought and he rose up, eyes wide, still worried, still wondering where all his boundaries were, all the pitfalls and traps but Aziraphale just smiled at him, incredibly fond and gentle.

“Keep you, my dear? Well, of course I shall keep you. Why wouldn’t I when you have just given me the absolute very best orgasm of my life?”

Crowley looked at him, blinked at him. “That was the best one? They’re not always good?”

“Of course they’re always good,” there were so many emotions running through the angel’s face. “But when you are with the person you love, they’re bloody incredible.”

Crowley smiled then, he couldn’t help it, and leaned over to kiss the angel, _his_ angel, before settling himself down again, pressing himself as close as possible to all that lovely skin. He wouldn’t be awake for long now, he knew that, not when he was this close to everything he’d ever wanted. He closed his eyes, sighed and drifted off. Realising that, for the first time in his long and lonely life, he was beautifully warm, inside and out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this, I have written another GO fic called Remains :) 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/21017792
> 
> And my new GO WIP, Another Time, Another Place
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/24587371


End file.
